Canary in a Coal Mine
by CollingwoodGirl
Summary: Casefic inspired by the following quote: Truly the universe is full of ghosts, not the sheeted churchyard spectres, but the indistinguishable elements of individual life, which having once been, can never die, though they blend and change, and change again forever. —H. Rider Haggard, King Solomon's Mines. Originally posted on AO3. Rating will change to M after Part 3.
1. Chapter 1

**Part 1**

Chapter 1

 _"Father!"_

Every night I wake, drenched in sweat—the last image of my father burned into my retinas, shimmering in my vision like a ghost.

It's been ten long years, but he visits me in my sleep wearing the same thing he always wore—a duster and work trousers of an indeterminate shade of grime, no matter how hard they were scrubbed on the washboard, heavy boots crusted with earth, and a sturdy cap with its carbide lamp that he would let me wear when I was especially good.

He was a kind-looking man, my father, possessing a square-ish face with a soft rounded nose, and wide narrow eyes that crinkled when he smiled. His ears perched high on his head, sticking out as if straining to capture every sound they could. But in the end, his awareness of the first fractures of a splintering support didn't make the slightest difference between life and death.

Every night I wake, gasping for breath as I imagine his terror—the rocks' weight crushing the air from his lungs, breaking his body. I feel that weight on my chest as if it is mine to bear. And, selfishly, I wonder if his last thoughts were of me.

* * *

Chapter 2

29 March, 1931

The splash of navy silk wicked like spilled ink against the blotter of an azure March sky. Its fashionable owner—who was walking along Lygon Street when a whip of wind unfurled it from her neck—was contemplating its gruesome demise, strangled by a chimney flue or perhaps under the tyres of a tram, until a thick-knuckled hand shot out to seize it.

"Damn it!" Detective Inspector Jack Robinson swore, clutching his right shoulder and drawing horrified looks from the passersby who scuttled to reach their Sunday morning services before the hallowed doors closed.

"Honestly, Jack," Phryne huffed, as a woman warily uncovered her child's ears. She herded him towards the relative safety of the nearest building, where Jack couldn't be jostled by the faithfully late.

She spun him around and ran her fingers along his shoulder, feeling for the raised knot of tendon and muscle that even his overcoat could not conceal. She forced the heel of her hand into the spot that had been mounting an angry protest against Jack for nearly a week. His breath released in a whoosh of agony and then relief as her manipulations eased the worst of it.

"Wrench it again and you'll be on desk duty for a week. Must you always do the noble thing?" The twinkle in her eye belied any pretense of irritation as she peeled the scarf from his fingers.

Jack's eyes darkened as he watched her wrap it more securely around the circumference of her throat—remembering the feel of it round his own wrists. "As I recall, nobility was rather thin on the ground when I sustained this injury."

Her scarlet lips gathered wickedly. "Entirely my fault Inspector," she simpered, stepping in to his body to flick the ends of the scarf against his chest. "I should have released you from _custody_ a bit sooner."

"I should have been very sorry if you had, Miss Fisher."

A tinge of pink crept up his neck as he spoke, but he refused to look away. That he was complicit in their games was one of the many surprises she had come to cherish ever since he had taken her overture to heart. That he regularly battled his natural austerity to express his pleasure in them set fireworks alight in her belly.

She indulged the shimmering sensation by placing a chaste kiss to the corner of his lopsided mouth. "Now, let's get you sorted or we won't have a hope of continuing our interrogations anytime soon."

He pulled back from her teasing lips and cleared his throat, adjusting his tie in the way that meant that she had stirred his blood and there was currently nothing for it. They fell into their usual rhythm, her long, confident stride making up for their difference in height to match his more languid one.

"Are you certain this place is on the up and up?"

"Jack… Would I lure a man of the law into a house of disrepute?"

He cast her a sidelong glance and raised a demanding eyebrow.

"Alright, of course I would," she confessed readily, threading her arm tightly into his right to better brace him. "But not this time. Gustav is the best masseur this side of the Straits of Gibraltar. Works out all the top athletes."

"Not Abbotsford," he pouted stubbornly, unconvinced that a police detective should be witnessed seeking services in a massage parlour—legal or not.

"No offense, darling, but Abbotsford couldn't afford him." She swung out her hip so it knocked playfully into his thigh as they walked. The roll of his eyes was all the reward she required. "Stop worrying. He'll straighten out all your kinks."

Damn the delight that shone in her eyes. "Seems like something _you_ should be worried about," he teased back, biting his lip against the urge to kiss her senseless in broad daylight.

"You're not his type, Jack," she growled protectively, "Gustav doesn't enjoy a challenge half as much as I do."

Losing the fight to the fact that the streets were all but deserted at this holy hour, Jack wrapped his arm around her waist, twisting her towards him. But as he closed in on her mouth, she halted him with a hand to his chest as a man stormed out of one of the government buildings.

The agitated figure spluttered as he traversed the steps, sweeping his briefcase through the air in front of him as he fished what turned out to be a packet of cigarettes from his suit pocket with his free hand.

"I thought the buildings were closed today."

Jack's eyes found the man cursing at a match that wouldn't catch flame. "Could be a special session?" He watched the scene with dispassion until something made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "Phryne—"

A terrible sound cleaved the air. A treacherous, all too familiar sound to two veterans of the Great War. Instinct knocked them to the pavement.

By the time they stood, the man was inexorably engulfed in flames—the sphere around him a dark, hissing cloud of noxious smoke that did nothing to smother his screams.

Jack let his overcoat slip from his shoulders and began to remove his suit jacket knowing the wool would do a better job of suffocating the fire. "Go!" he yelled to Phryne over his shoulder. "Go for help!"

The stench made Jack's gut convulse. The acrid air forced tears from his eyes. Even as he scaled the pavers by twos, the scene and the memories it stirred threatened to overwhelm him.

"I'm not leaving you to this!" she insisted, following his example and tearing off her own coat to tamp it around the man who was thrashing on the steps.

For once, Jack was grateful for her bullheadedness. The Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher had never accompanied him across No Man's Land, therefore he must be in Melbourne.

The cries of agony had ceased, not—as they discovered to their horror—due to a lack of pain, but to a lack of flesh capable of emitting sound. And in that instant, space and time lost all meaning as each was carried on waves of blood and grit and pain back to hell.

Tears swam in her eyes as she tried to claw her way back to the present, but nineteen thirty-one seemed a distant dream as she looked upon the horror before her. Until his hand closed around her wrist.

"There's nothing more we can do," Jack warned, pulling her hand back from where she had reached to feel for a heartbeat. He knew all too well how such an exploration would turn out. Reduced to a gruesome broth of skin and blood and sinew, the human form stood no chance against elemental fire. He felt certain she must know this, but he had no wish to be a witness to it.

They allowed long seconds to pass, shaky fingers still clasped together. This particular intimacy, while forged over whiskeys in her parlour and too-close calls, still felt heavy and strange in their hands.

Both battle-worn soldiers in war and in life, neither was accustomed to sharing their burdens—allowing another to see what they instinctively hid away in the recesses of their souls lest their momentary weakness be used against them. Yet as Jack read the tightness in her eyes and Phryne the pallor of his skin, they held on that much tighter, exchanging unspoken promises.

Behind them, a cry shook them apart.

"What the devil—" a man's voice boomed from the door.

The detectives turned as one to find an immaculately dressed man swaying on his feet, staring at the scene. Surely, was his hair not already devoid of pigment, the shock would have made it so.

The hard stone wouldn't make for an effective landing if their only witness lost consciousness. Jack leapt up and caught him around his chest, easing him down.

"Edward! My God," the man whispered, as he started to come round. His eyes slowly focused on the bedraggled figures before him. "Who are you? Please," he begged, fear creeping into his voice, "Call the authorities."

Jack stopped short of reaching for the credentials he kept in his suit coat pocket, casting an eye to where it lay, singed and crumpled across the body of the dead man. He had little desire to attempt to retrieve them. "Detective Inspector Jack Robinson," he stated in a voice that left no room for questions. "We are the authorities."

"Let's go back inside," Phryne suggested. "The Inspector can wait with Edward while we find a telephone to call for an ambulance. Come along, Mister…"

"Clapp," the man stated, seeming to find himself again as he took her outstretched hand. "Sir Harlan Clapp."

Jack sent her a warning glance as they cautiously stood, but she patted the pocket of her trousers to assure him that she was well-armed if it came to that.

She introduced herself while Mr. Clapp led her down a paneled hall towards an open door with an engraved brass nameplate that read, _H.J. Clapp, Railway Commissioner_. If he seemed surprised by her unusual occupation, he didn't show it. "The telephone is just there," he gestured to the corner of an ornately carved desk littered with objects.

After making the necessary calls, Phryne took in her surroundings. This was certainly no ordinary government office. The trophies in Jack's office bordered dangerously on pride—tempered just enough to intrigue her. Clapp's assortment of polished cups and obelisks spoke to an ego the size of the tapestry which hung behind his desk, taking up most of the wall and bearing some kind of crest.

She declined the drink that was offered to her, noting the fine leaded crystal and firming her opinion even more.

"Well, you won't mind if I do," Clapp said, his white moustache twitching as the spirit burned satisfyingly down his throat.

"Certainly not," Phryne agreed. "Did you know the man well?"

"He worked for me." Bitter tears threatened at the edges of his eyes. "For the Commission, I should say."

"Doing what?"

"He was our solicitor."

* * *

Chapter 3

Once the body was safely on its way to the morgue, Jack was free to make his way back to Phryne's side. He found her seated opposite Clapp and smoothly pulled up a chair to join her in the interview. Though, it was far more of a one-way conversation than he might have imagined given the nature of the accident.

Clapp was irritatingly well-versed in the politic of law himself, it seemed, politely refusing to answer pointed questions and declining the Inspector's request to search the offices without a warrant. If Jack had had a whisky for every time the phrase "client legal privilege" had been uttered he'd be well into his cups by now.

Possibly more infuriating to Jack was that they had no grounds on which to refute him. There was no reason to believe this was anything more than a freak accident beyond a niggling suspicion thanks to Commissioner Clapp's lack of answers and, quite frankly, Phryne Fisher's presence at the scene.

Mulishly, Jack nudged open an unlocked cupboard door on his way out and noted its contents. Not particularly interesting, a mop and pail, broom, rusted buckets of establishment-porridge coloured paint, one of those new-fangled vacuum cleaners that Miss Fisher had purchased to Dot's horror, and a crate of cleaning supplies. His eyes lingered on a tin of solvent—its label warning in bright red letters to _keep away from flames_.

Refusing to go home for a change of clothing, the Inspector proceeded to carry out his duties in singed shirtsleeves and waistcoat. The loss of his boss' woolen layers of armour seemed as nothing to the Senior Constable given the expression he bore as he entered City South. Deciding discretion was the better part of valour, Collins dutifully followed his DI's orders and took each of their statements individually.

By the time they made it back to Jack's office, a box of the deceased's effects had been delivered.

"Edward Tidmuth, Esquire. Solicitor." Jack murmured from his chair, attempting to gather his preliminary notes.

"Never a terribly popular vocation," Phryne mused, picking over the contents of Tidmuth's briefcase. "But a rather lucrative one. Here's a cheque from the Railway Commission." She handed it to Jack, whose mouth dipped down as he read the impressive figure.

"Looks like I picked the wrong profession," he said dryly.

Casting a fond look at him—terribly thankful that he had stuck to crime—she pulled out several annotated contracts and a large yellow pad jotted with handwritten notes. Her brow furrowed as she flipped though page after page but nothing stood out as particularly suspicious. "We need to have a look at his office."

"Not until the warrant comes through," he reminded her. Beyond what they could survey from the personal effects carried on the victim's body, his investigation into the death had been immobilized from the top. "Mr. Clapp appears to be very well-connected."

"What about a residence?" she hummed thoughtfully. "There are some keys here."

"My suspicious nature does come in handy on occasion, Miss Fisher." She looked up in time to catch the devilish glint in his eyes. "I had Collins run a check on Mr. Tidmuth just before the order came to desist."

"I always knew that the heart of a rebel beat beneath that three-piece suit, Jack," she purred.

He cleared his throat but couldn't suppress the pleased upward tick of his mouth, "White male, aged twenty-eight. Single. No children—"

"Small mercies."

He ignored her remark and continued. "Rents a room in Carlton. I know the neighbourhood. It's a bit beneath his means but decent enough."

"Hmm," she hummed thoughtfully, setting the box aside to pluck up a brown file. Two sheets of typed notes slid out.

The pages contained the statements Jack had insisted take as soon as they had returned. Her eyes swam as she read her words on the page—they were the unbiased, objective notations of a seasoned detective. But her hand trembled as the scene replayed itself in her mind. Her memory would not allow for objectivity as the metallic smells of blood and French earth filled her nostrils.

A glass was unceremoniously placed before her, holding a generous measure of the whisky Jack kept in the rolltop for just such occasions. When had he even gotten up?

He watched her cautiously from behind his own glass and remained silent as the colour slowly returned to her cheeks. Phryne Fisher did not take kindly to being coddled—a sentiment to which he could well relate. Nevertheless, it had taken him the better part of the last year to recognise when it was best to bite down on the urge. He settled for brushing her hand as he took the empty vessel from it. It was a subtle motion, but she noted it with softened eyes and an even softer offer of thanks.

More than anything else in that moment, he wanted to take her home. No matter that he still kept his own flat, _home_ is how he thought of the place now, with its underwater parlour and sun-dappled kitchen, its bedrooms like Ali-Baba's cave—full of secrets and treasures and dark delights. Her bath which, like a holy river to the faithful, seemed to hold the power to lighten her soul. He wanted to draw forth the miracle of hot water and hold her as she was baptized. He longed to be swept into the circle of her grace.

A tap on the lettered glass found Jack leaping backwards—more to distance himself from his own intimate thoughts than anything a subordinate might have seen in their postures.

"Sorry to interrupt, sir," Collins atoned, eyes affixed firmly to the well-polished tops of his shoes. "Russell Street called. They want to know if we can spare a few men down to Flinders Street." The crook of his DI's eyebrow expedited Hugh's explanation. "Apparently one of the express lines isn't running tonight and they're having a time with the displaced passengers."

Jack huffed an irritated sigh. "Go on, then. No… better yet…" With sudden inspiration, he tossed a set of brass keys at his Senior Constable. "Send McElroy and Grifford. I want you to survey the victim's quarters."

"Sir—"

"The Railway Commissioner has no grounds to refute a search of the victim's residence. But even so… do it quietly. Use my name if you must—the landlord owes me a favour." His constable didn't budge. "Something else, Collins?"

"Yes, sir. There's a lady here asking for Miss Fisher."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Of course there is," he muttered with no real ill will. He looked towards Phryne and waited for her to grant her permission before nodding his own.

"Kas!" Phryne trilled, as Collins ushered the unexpected visitor into the DI's office. Her friend's stoic green eyes were rimmed with red. The tinge made them appear more emerald than their usual jade—fiercer and yet more vulnerable than she had ever seen them.

Jack had quickly learnt that Miss Fisher's circle of friends reflected the complicated facets of her personality much like a kaleidoscope would—scattering colours and shapes and textures of varying grit and shine until a dazzling image formed from the pattern. He studied the woman carefully.

Dressed in well-tailored silks and wools in shades of cream and tan, it was clear to his eye that she had a few pennies to rub together. Violet-red feathers swirled above her right ear, standing out against the caramel felt of her cloche, and echoed the colour of what Jack felt sure were priceless ruby earrings.

She was uncommonly attractive with soulful green eyes and a deep bronze complexion. In contrast to Phryne's refined features, her friend's beauty was rugged, and the streaks of her tears, forming tiny tributaries in her powder, did little to diminish it.

Phryne clasped the woman's hand between her own and didn't let go until her friend was seated safely in the chair that she herself had just vacated. "What's happened?"

"I ran into Elizabeth at the club. She said I might find you here." Her voice rasped with the strain of remaining steady. Looking up, she finally seemed to notice the other person standing in the room.

"Kas, this is Detective Inspector Jack Robinson. Jack, Miss Kasi Ferguson, fellow adventuress."

"You're him, then," she said evenly, taking stock of the man who had managed to turn the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher's head. "I would have preferred to make your acquaintance under happier circumstances."

Kasi watched curiously as the olive tone of his cheeks deepened with mild embarrassment. His eyes, however, crinkled amicably and darted towards his lover. So unassuming was his expression that she found herself charmed, and momentarily distracted from her reason for being here.

"Likewise, Miss Ferguson."

Her smile was watery but sincere nevertheless. "I need your help, Phryne."

"I'll just leave you two in private," Jack offered, gesturing towards the door.

"Actually," said Miss Ferguson, stilling her fingers when she noticed them twisting in her lap. She had not traveled here with the intention of involving the police but something in the Inspector's deep register made her feel secure. "I'd like it if you stayed."

Jack assented with a nod and brought his own chair round for Miss Fisher, and stood ground a respectable distance from the two ladies. He braced his elbow against the cast iron safe.

Growing alarmed as her mind raced towards the multitude of horrifying scenarios that could befall a bright, successful, and fiercely independent woman, Miss Fisher leaned forward in her chair and stilled her friend's hands with her own. "Kas, are you… Did someone…?"

"No. Oh God! No," she said quickly, understanding the unfinished question. "This isn't about me, Phryne. It's… it's my brother."

"Neville?!" Phryne exclaimed, ignoring a sideways glance from the Inspector. "I haven't seen him in an age."

"You know, Mum used to say that so long as Neville had a book, a pen, and a cause, he was home—so the place he actually laid his head didn't matter all that much." A wistful smile played on Kasi Ferguson's lips. "I don't see him often… I remind him too much of our father." She cleared her throat softly, looking somewhat surprised by her own revelation.

"Your father's been gone some time now, hasn't he?" Phryne asked.

"Yes, but I don't think Neville's ever gotten over his death. Dad had gone down to perform an inspection. He had men to do that sort of thing, of course, but he was never one to hide behind a desk." There was a bittersweet pang of pride in her voice. "It was an accident but my brother still insists it could have been avoided. It's a sore spot between us. I prefer not to dwell on what I cannot change."

Kasi twisted stones the colour of pigeon's blood in her ears. "You can imagine my surprise when he rang me last week. Said he was coming to town for business and would I like to join him for supper."

"And did you?"

Her expression soured and her earrings seemed to flash in anger. "I forgot what he's like when he's on one of his crusades."

"As I recall, Neville was always rather passionate when he believed in something," Phryne sympathized, but the smoulder in her voice forced Jack to bite down hard on his tongue—his brows working furiously as he attempted to restrain the reflexive rolling of his eyes.

"He obviously hasn't changed in that regard," Kasi replied coolly. "It's been years since we last saw each other. Oh, we write of course… and telephone. But it isn't the same. He's all the family I have left."

"I presume it wasn't the reunion you had hoped for?" Phryne asked, knowing all too well—and too recently—that particular flavour of disappointment.

"I saw him for just long enough to get an earful about the 'arrogance of the capitalists' before he stood me up, insisting he needed to head back immediately." She huffed a mirthless laugh. "The cause was always more important."

Jack sympathized with the men who protested peacefully for a living wage but, in this case, what came to bear was the image of a privileged man-child, thumbing his nose at his parents by taking up with the Communists.

"And which cause is that?" Jack asked, struggling to keep the derision out of his voice.

"He represents a branch of the Australian Coal and Shale Employees' Federation."

"Forgive me Miss Ferguson," he said, weighing his words carefully, "You hardly strike me as the sort to open an investigation just because an evening did not go to plan." Jack took a step towards his desk and leaned heavily over it. "I still don't understand what's brought you here."

"I can see why Phryne likes you, Inspector," she pronounced approvingly. "You don't mince words." She alternated her penetrating gaze between them. "I need you to find him."

The two detectives goggled at her. "Find him?" Phryne finally replied. "Do you have reason to think your brother never made it back to—"

"Wonthaggi. That's just it, Phryne, I know he did. I was furious at the way Neville left. I said terrible things to him." She captured a lock of hair and curled it tensely around her finger. "I allowed myself to be carried away by resentments I had thought long dead and buried… But I couldn't leave things like that. He's the only family I have left."

Fresh tears spilled down her face and she waved off the Inspector's offer of a handkerchief, preferring to wear the stains as a penitence. "His boarding house doesn't have a telephone so I sent a telegram to the local post office asking him to ring me. I confirmed it… he signed for it Friday morning."

"Miss Ferguson—"

"I realize it's not much to go on, Inspector. The policeman in Wonthaggi said there was nothing he could do. But I have this terrible feeling—like a goose has walked over my grave. He's my brother. No matter what differences lie between us, we share the same blood." She leaned forward and reached for Miss Fisher's hands. "Neville's in trouble, I just know it. What if something happens and the last words we spoke to each other were in anger? Please, Phryne. I am fearing the worst."

* * *

Chapter 4

Collins returned sometime later, bearing a small box of items recovered from Tidmuth's rented room. A set of cufflinks, a bank ledger of his weekly expenses, a small stash of pound notes tucked under the mattress—probably for emergencies. But, to the detectives' surprise, there was nothing of any significance. Without the coroner's report on Edward Tidmuth, there would have been little they could do but brood about the morbid recollections of their morning.

The mystery of Neville Ferguson's disappearance provided a welcome distraction. With the remnants of a pie cart supper scattered over the desk, the two detectives were pacing about Jack's office as if every step might bring them closer to a plausible solution.

"There's no evidence to suggest that anything untoward happened. And, according to his sister, it's hardly the first time he's gone off without a forwarding address."

"It's in their blood, Jack," she replied, her fingers casting through the air as she considered what she knew of the family. "Their grandfather left England to seek adventure in the Antipodes and discovered diamonds for his trouble. When their father was of age, he journeyed to India and fell in love with their mother who, as I understand it, had quite the knack for ruby mining."

"That explains the earrings," Jack murmured under his breath. "According to Miss Ferguson, her brother doesn't seem to share a taste for the family business."

"No. Neville was always an idealist."

"Is that what you call it?" he snorted.

Phryne rolled her eyes at him and carried on. "He stayed in England after the war and took up campaigning for the miners' unions. When Ferguson senior died, it was Kasi who wanted to run the operation but, legally, she couldn't inherit it. The mines and all their holdings went to Neville." Phryne's sour expression said all there was to say about that.

"I imagine he was less than pleased with the notion of becoming a capitalist oppressor in an official capacity."

"That's an understatement, but Kasi saw it as an opportunity. She persuaded Neville to sell her the lion's share in exchange for her promise to make their mines the model of worker's rights."

Phryne handed him the collection of tattered newspaper clippings her friend had left them, all mentioning either Neville or the family mines by name.

"And he's been touting that model over the whole of Australia ever since," Jack concluded. "Everyone's happy. Miss Ferguson gets her business and Mister Ferguson can go on being an _idealist_." He thumbed through the album of clippings, his finger lingering over a small article that quoted Mr. Ferguson. "Not that he's had much success."

Phryne leaned over him, doing her best not to notice the hitch of his breath as her scarf accidentally brushed against his hand. "It says here he was in Sydney."

"Rothbury to be exact." Jack's lips spread into the thin grim line that meant nothing good could follow. "You were still in England," he said quietly. "The striking miners charged the gates of the Rothbury colliery when non-union labour was brought in. New South Wales police—" He scrubbed a palm over his face as if he considered himself somehow culpable for their actions because he shared their uniform.

"Jack?"

"The police shot into the crowd and an unarmed man was killed. The miners finally agreed to go back to work after months of near-starvation and living tough. Their demands were never met."

She frowned. "Perhaps the experience led Neville to a more radical line of thinking."

"Hmm." It was a noncommittal sound as he resumed his inspection of the scrapbook.

From what he could piece together, Neville Ferguson's crusade took him to mines across the Antipodes, sometimes staying on for a few weeks, other times only a day or two to give a speech or meet with union leaders. But the clippings from the past several months suggested a different story—despite what his sister had said about Neville's nomadic tendencies.

"Your old friend is certainly eloquent. Listen to this, 'I understand why the native people call this place home, for I have never experienced such a kinship among people as I have felt in this hamlet which would have never existed but for the labour borne on the backs of these men and women.'"

"Oh, that one's from _Worker's Weekly_ —several months ago, if I recall. I didn't realize it was _that_ Ferguson."

"You read _Worker's Weekly_?" Jack asked, his mouth going a bit dry. "Wait, what am I saying? Of course you do."

She sidled up next to him and fished the article from his hand. "Eloquent, yes. Sentimental, no. That's probably why I didn't connect it with Neville."

"Well, despite what his sister says of his nomadic tendencies, it appears Mr. Ferguson has been barracking the same union for quite some time now. Wonthaggi is—"

"The Aboriginal word for _home_ ," she finished neatly, biting her lip to keep it from twitching. She rather loved it when Jack reminded her how damned clever he was.

"And home to the State Coal Mine," he added, the spark of pride in her eyes flooding his chest with warmth. But he was tired and could sense the impending crash as the excitement ebbed away, leaving them with only the crushing weight of the day's horrors. The connections that were forming in the back of his mind could wait until morning. Jack looked at his watch—the last of his duty officers would have clocked out an hour ago.

Before he could even suggest it, Phryne read the worried lines of his face, the hunch of his spine. It was times like this in which he wondered if she could also read his mind. She cupped his jaw in her hands and kissed him tenderly. "Speaking of… Let's go home, Inspector."

* * *

Chapter 5

Jack peeled off his clothing—with the charred remains of his suit jacket were currently undergoing inspection at the morgue, he had little desire to see the remaining pieces ever again—and watched longingly as Phryne doused the steaming bathwater with sandalwood oil.

Most of the time, navigating the close quarters of her tub with Jack was a delightful proposition. With an eye to his shoulder however, Phryne thought it might do him more harm than good.

"Considering the circumstances," she said, placing a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth and rubbing her palm over the twisted knot, "I think your injury would be better served by a hot shower."

Resentful that he had been buffered into the shower by Phryne—and even more so that she had probably been right—he toweled himself off roughly and pulled on his pyjamas with a determination that spoke of pure pigheadedness. To add another insult to that injury, he encountered Mrs. Collins as she was leaving the en suite bath. A flame of petty jealousy licked through him at the thought of Phryne's companion having the privilege of administering the sacrament of sponge and soap.

Jack watched Phryne rinse the last of the foam from her body and followed the tilt of her head to where a laden tray balanced on a small stool. He brought his mug of cocoa to his lips obediently and with unmitigated disdain.

"Dot believes in the power of cocoa to remedy life's ills," she reminded him.

"Only if it's mostly brandy," Jack grumbled.

"Mmm," Phryne mused as Jack spluttered in a coughing fit, the unexpected sear of alcohol burning its way down his gullet.

"Fortunately for us," she continued smoothly, "That's what Mister Butler believes."

He leaned against the sink top and finished his drink, the cut of his eyes promising retribution for her cheek. After all, there was quite a distance between the tub and the nearest towel to hand.

But before he had time to tease her with his threat, a sopping Phryne was out of the bath and kissing him, soaking his pyjamas through to his skin.

She had indeed missed his steadying presence alongside her in the water, despite—or perhaps in spite of—Dot's doting, chaste attention. As the rough sponge had been dragged across her tender skin, she had closed her eyes and imagined it was the heat of his mouth on her neck. Had dreamed of the tease of his hands as the rivulets of water had cascaded between her breasts. Phryne had longed to feel the curl of his feet around her ankles as he might have spread her legs apart, the tips of his fingers cresting up her thighs—slick with soapy water—intent on anointing her with her preferred brand of absolution.

She was wild-eyed and eager, moaning his name at his slightest touch. He knew this mood of hers. Sometimes, an overabundance of French champagne was the culprit. On other, enjoyable occasions, she had been the willing victim of his ruthlessly patient teasing. Like a fever, the concentration of her lust was a symptom—the harder her body fought the tension building inside her blood, the hotter it grew.

The cause this time, he thought darkly, was nothing to celebrate—death sending her reeling, headlong, to prove her own vitality.

"Phryne—"

"Jack…" she panted, tugging him closer by the scruff of his neck. "I need you." The heat of her body, flushed pink from the hot water, flooded his senses. The heat of her demand silenced his questions.

He wrapped her in his arms, absorbing the shiver that ran down her spine as her wet skin began to cool, and carried her to the bed. His hands wandered over her skin, tracing the curve of her breast, the jut of her hip until her legs were brushing restlessly against the thick pelt of fur beneath her.

Lowering his lips to hers and stroking his fingers through her thatch of dark curls, Jack recalled the first time she had ever uttered those words. The force had hit him like shellshock, stunning him still and dumb and terrified that she might try to outrun the force of the blast.

She _needed_ him? Preposterous. _Wanted_ , yes. She had often told him how much she wanted him, usually in a timbre of such passion and wickedness that his flesh felt liquefied. He could believe that readily enough—her desire was convincing. But _needed_? The way the sound of her laughter was more addictive to him than cocaine? The way the taste of her cunt on his tongue rendered oxygen all but immaterial?

He had dared not imagine such a thing. Phryne Fisher needed no one. But then she had smiled and dropped to her knees, wrapping her lips around his cock to devour him. In that fraction of a moment before his mind had been rendered a hot, white blur, he had realized that Phryne did nothing, said nothing, needed no one she didn't want to.

He wanted to wallow in the feeling of those words against his skin—to rub them in until his chest and lips and fingertips were burnished gold with their dust.

"Say it again," he murmured, teasing the ruffled edges of her velvet folds with deft fingers.

She tugged him down by his hair so they were eye to eye. "I need you, Jack Robinson."

His irises, fused by molten fire, darkened to disks of obsidian. He covered her mouth, swallowing her moan as his fingers sunk slowly inside her to curl towards his orbiting thumb—intent on giving her everything she needed and more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

Chapter 6

I pledged my life to the cause. To the Union. To the workers.

Every day I write articles, lobby politicians, feed the abandoned families of the tent towns with whatever I can get my hands on. I want a world where kids could grow up knowing their fathers. If that sounds naïve then so be it. The war had taken so many… Thirteen years, the war is over.

But the mines keep taking them. They are greedy.

Four more miners dead and the circulating rumours of layoffs are frightening the men even more than descending into the dark, dank Number 20.

Every day I stand beside my brothers in protest of the conditions as they starve on their reduced pay. But protests don't seem to matter. The message falls on deaf ears. Perhaps it's time to change that.

* * *

Chapter 7

On most days, Jack does his level best not to think about the war. Or, when he does have to, he finds it easier to synthesize it into dates and facts and geography. But there were always cases that brought the visions back—a discovery of machine-gun ammunition, interviewing a shell-shocked man.

Like a pebble thrown into a pond, the encounter—having broken the surface—caused a ripple effect, darkening the edges, tinging his thoughts with an unpleasant, prickly haze. So, later, when he awoke bolting upright and shivering in a cold sweat, an impotent scream dying in the back of his throat, he was not surprised.

This time it was the memory of an exploding shell—Private Cavendish's charred body twisting in the air like a grotesque ragdoll—as the rest of his unit had continued to storm over the top. The lad had been from Carlton, quick with a joke, and always with a spare fag to share. Deep in the caverns of Jack's mind images of Cavendish warred for dominance—the boy's easy smile morphing and melting like bubbling wax from his bones.

He spread his hands flat on either side of his hips, letting them sink into the satin bedclothes—tethering himself to heaven rather than hell. After long minutes spent orienting himself to his surroundings—the glint of her silver hairbrush on the vanity, the last reddened embers of the fire in the grate—his breathing slowly began to return to normal.

"They never leave, do they?" she said softly, the tenor of her voice reminding him that she was no stranger to the darkness.

He reached for her, moulding his damp chest to her naked back. He needed her warmth to dispel the chill, the death that still clung to him like vapour. During his years as a single pillar, he had used books to fight the frigid creep of memories like ice water in his veins. Favorite stories, read again and again like old friends, helped keep the worst at bay. But as Phryne curled her body to better press every possible inch of skin against him, he thought he might never be able to express what it meant to him that she wielded the strength of her body not just for his pleasure but also his comfort. He inhaled the scent of her _KoKo for the hair_ , inviting it to settle into his lungs like a balm.

" _Truly the universe is full of ghosts_ ," he quoted, his voice wry and tinged with sadness.

Jack no longer believed in the god of his youth, but neither did he subscribe to the idea that the finality of death spelled the finality of existence. Most nights, he brushed away these thoughts—the speculation too painful to consider. But tonight, with his arms wrapped around her, there was no hiding from them.

His chin crested her shoulder to nestle into the hollow of her collarbone as he considered the transfiguration of the human soul.

Science had taught him that energy cannot be destroyed; it merely changes form. It was an appealing theorem, that upon death one simply became another part of the ever-expanding universe. Yet without a heaven to reward and a hell to punish, there was no justice in it. Jack's moral compass would not allow him to consider the possibility that the forevermore existence of murderers, rapists, and child slavers was the equivalent to that of their fallen victims.

He gazed down at Phryne's figure, darker in its substance than the surrounding night. Did she not live her life, in part, as proxy for her sister? And in that way, wasn't Janey Fisher transformed and transformed again?

Private Cavendish continued to endure—if only because he was alive in Jack's mind. And what of the countless soldiers and victims who vied for a moment of recognition in his dreams? He thought of his mother and father and took comfort in the fact that he breathed the same air that had once held space in their chests. In the chambers of his heart, he carried the torch of their legacy—memories he treasured.

Perhaps it was both—energy that was elemental _and_ memorial. But what happened when there was no legacy… when there was no one left to remember?

Four times Rosie had fallen pregnant, once before the war and thrice after. Four times he had watched on, helpless, as their future was ripped from Rosie's womb, their hearts growing harder with each failure and the act of physical love—the one connection they had left when Jack had returned—felt like a cruel trick God had played on them.

To their faces, their families had offered advice, prayers, and even the occasional packet of herbs or bottle of tincture—but there were always whispers about who was at fault. Jack, for himself, had never blamed Rosie—they had been in it together, after all—but it did little to diminish the pain.

As Cavendish's commanding officer, he had taken it upon himself to write to the private's family. With no remains to bury, they had purchased a memorial—a modest white marble plaque, always with a fresh flower that spoke of their frequent visits.

Jack had denounced any such hopes for himself the moment Rosie had left for her sister's. The Robinson line ended with him. Jack thought that he had long accepted this fact, but the small quiet voice remained—the one that whispers and cries silent tears about what could have been as it takes its place, a formless, shapeless presence amidst the faces of the dead. Acceptance and endurance, as it turned out, were not the same thing.

Despite being the happiest he has been in more than a decade, the feeling—cold and damp and impossibly familiar—draped itself over him and refused to be dislodged.

She sensed his mood and reached behind her to stroke his cheek. "You don't believe in ghosts."

"No." He turned his head to dot her palm with a kiss. "Not that kind, anyway."

"Jack—"

She tried to twist in his arms but he tightened his embrace, holding her still. Phryne would see the fear in his eyes and he did not think himself capable of answering her questions. He worried she might think he still longed for a child. That may have been true, once, but no longer. It was his legacy for which he mourned, and it sounded petulant and selfish even to his ears.

Phryne would never be concerned with such a thing. But then, why would she? Phryne Fisher was the sort of woman people wrote books about. Endowments and scholarships bore her name. She had Jane.

"Mind if we stay like this for a while?" he whispered into the unsettled silence.

* * *

Chapter 8

"Inspector, at last," Mac greeted with a lilt of her tea cup, perfectly at ease in their kitchen—the morning's _Argus_ spread out in front of her: _Authorities Still Investigating Cause of Jolt in Melbourne City-Centre_. "Five more minutes and I would have led a search party," the doctor teased with a wink.

Mr. Butler tossed the Inspector a knowing smile over his shoulder that ensured, _Not on my watch_. He had borne witness to the detectives' worry and exhaustion last night and had vowed to let them sleep as late as possible. Judging from the tired man's face, however, it did not appear that it had been restful.

"You've looked better yourself," he volleyed back, pulling out a chair and joining her.

Unless he was sharing a private supper with Phryne, Jack nearly always preferred the comfortable informality of the kitchen table. He looked up into Mr. Butler's face with eternal thanks as a stream of strong, fragrant coffee flowed from the long spout of a polished silver urn and into his cup.

"With all due respect to your faith in my abilities, Jack, I'd prefer not to examine another corpse like that in a hurry."

From her leather satchel, Dr. MacMillan pulled a file and swept her crystalline eyes between the policeman and the domestic. After Jack's almost imperceptible nod, she opened it.

"I wanted you to see the results before I processed the paperwork officially." There was an edge in her voice that reminded of a well-honed blade being pressed to the skin but not breaking it. She patiently waited until his eyes reached the bottom of the page.

"Coal dust?" he asked in surprise. The Inspector's mind was turning.

The doctor nodded. "All over what's left of his clothing. Highly ignitable. You said he lit a cigarette?"

"That's it…" a voice alighted from the threshold, as silky as its possessor's chocolate-coloured kimono.

Everyone turned to find Miss Fisher, eyes shut tight, her arm gesticulating wildly in front of her as she tucked the hand into the collar of her dressing robe—reenacting the victim's last moments.

"…he was reaching for his cigarettes but he was clearing the air in front of him. He might have even coughed." Phryne's voice rang clearly through the still kitchen air as she reached back into her mind.

"Any theories on where it could have come from?" Mac asked pointedly.

"He must have been doused with the stuff just as he exited the building." Jack frowned. "I don't recall anyone passing us on the steps."

"No," Phryne agreed. "And Harlan Clapp didn't have a spot on him. But in the time it took, there was ample opportunity for him to change clothing."

"Or for someone to slip out the back." Jack said. "We need to have another look."

During his sleepless night, the Inspector had quite a bit of time to think. He had turned the pieces of information over and over in his mind until they had begun to form a picture.

"I don't suppose you've been following the inquest in the papers?" he asked the room at large.

"In fact, I have," Mac admitted darkly. "I'm a great believer in freedom of information, Inspector. But under the circumstances, I'm wondering if we shouldn't seal this case."

"Inquest?"

"Into the explosion at a coal mine in Wonthaggi, Miss," Mr. Butler said smoothly, not missing a beat. The man's ability to disappear into the background was uncanny. Jack shut his eyes briefly and hoped, once more, that the unnerving sensation would ease with time.

"Four men died as a result of a gas explosion in one of the newer shafts. Another was severely injured," the butler continued, handing her a cup of the stout Turkish brew that was his mistress' preference.

"I presume from your faces that a verdict was returned?" she asked, blowing lightly on her coffee before succumbing to the first sip.

"Right in one," Mac said grimly, sharing a pointed glance with the Inspector.

"Last Wednesday, to be precise," he affirmed. "The jury found that the workers didn't take the proper precautions. The deaths were ruled accidental therefore no charges were levied against the State."

"Hmm. Remind me who controls the Wonthaggi mine." Phryne was already connecting the dots as she paced the length of the kitchen.

Jack answered her anyway, "The Railway Commission."

"Someone wanted to send a message." Phryne's voice had taken on the telltale trill that meant she had found the right thread to pull to begin unravelling the mystery. "And who better to deliver it than the solicitor who represented them?"

"I suppose you'll be needing these sooner than later," Mac said, passing him the recovered contents of his billfold and, thankfully, his credentials—only slightly worse for wear.

Mr. B. looked between the faces of the doctor, policeman and detective. "A murder, then?"

"Looks that way," Jack sighed. It had certainly not escaped his attention that Kasi Ferguson's missing crusader brother was tied to the very same colliery. He scrubbed his face with his hand and tried desperately to ignore his deep-seated doubt of coincidences.

* * *

Chapter 9

Tucked into the small telephone table in the hall, Jack nodded as if the man on the other end of the line could see him. "No, sir. I'm not inclined to release any information to the press or anyone else… I've just met with the Coroner. Have the warrants come through?" He fiddled with his fountain pen as his boss underscored the implications. "... I understand, Commissioner. About my request, I know it's unorthodox but…" His eyes shut tightly for a moment, his posture rigid against the hard, wooden seat. "Yes sir. Thank you. I'll keep you informed."

He replaced the receiver on its cradle as though it were made of lead.

"Well?" Mac asked impatiently, her hands crossed over her chest.

"Seal the report, Doctor MacMillan." The order rolled decisively off his tongue. "No one has access to it or the body of the unfortunate Mr. Tidmuth save the two of us. Not even the Premier is to have access without my accompaniment."

"Understood," she replied without batting an auburn eyelash. "Who's in charge of keeping this quiet?" she asked.

"The Chief Commissioner implied that he would be handling it personally." The arch in his brow informed that he neither needed nor wanted to know how that was to be accomplished—but was assured it would be.

"Right, then." Mac had seen too much in her forty-odd years for this to be a surprise. With a swift tug of salute to the brim of her hat, she was off, snapping the door closed behind her.

He found Phryne perched on her vanity settee, her eyes meeting his in the gilded mirror to draw him—as always—into her orbit.

He took his customary place behind her and smoothed his palms up her bare arms. She was daubing _Scandal_ —her latest French acquisition—behind her ears in preparation for the day ahead. His mouth turned down in a wry smile before descending to her shoulder.

"Apt choice," he murmured into her warm scented skin, wishing he had time to lose himself in a cloud of incense and opulence.

"Is it as bad as you thought?" She watched him carefully in the mirror. The particular modus operandi of this murder—and it was murder, of that she knew he was certain right down to his bones—was brutal and spoke to a calculating and vengeful mind. The details, if they got out, could lead to full-scale riots or a tidal wave of political reprisal. Neither was an option she cared to ponder for very long.

"Worse," he replied, removing his lips from her with obvious regret and moving to sit on the edge of the bed so she could continue to dress. "Technically, this ought to be Russell Street's case. It's their jurisdiction."

She could hear the words he had left unspoken—that he didn't want the case, didn't want it to stir up the ghosts with whom he had forged, if not peace then at least a truce. But of course, it was too late for that.

"But you were there. And your Chief trusts you."

"Yes," he admitted heavily. His service on the force had not been an easy one. Beyond the dangers he faced, there was the police strike, his marriage and subsequent divorce of his superior's daughter, the insinuation of a socialite into his cases, the arrest and exposure of the former police commissioner.

After everything that had transpired, that trust was a prize—hard won after long years of proving himself, of taking on the toughest cases—and he felt proud to have earned it. But at times, he could not escape the feeling that it was just as equally a burden.

"And it seems, he was successful in persuading Mister Clapp that it's in his best interest to cooperate."

"So the warrants—"

"Would attract far too much attention," he confirmed. "And we don't know what we're dealing with yet."

"Does he suspect revenge, an inside job, or a political protest?"

"I'm the lucky sod who gets to work that out," he sighed.

She stood before him and wove her fingers into his hair. "Good thing you have me to help you, then."

"This case, Phryne…" he seemed to have to steady himself. "You're not going to be allowed to consult as a private detective..."

Her expression told him that he might as well have slapped her.

"Well," she said turning on the spot. "I suppose after you've searched the railway offices, you'll be on the next train to Wonthaggi."

"As soon as possible, yes. Chief's orders."

Unable to ensure that the wobble in her throat wouldn't betray her, she addressed herself to her wardrobe instead of her partner—trusting to the muffling powers of silk chiffon to keep her secrets. "Just as well. I do have my own case to solve."

In another time, he might have accepted her words as the cocky dismissal she purported them to be. But things were different now—she had let him in and there was no going back. He considered the fervor of her touch, how she demanded more than he had ever thought himself capable of giving. And yet, even in this he thought she surpassed him in her generosity, holding him tight into the wee hours while he battled his demons. The comfort he found in her arms was unimaginable, even to him.

The very thought of having to return to that scene without her was enough to make him weep—had been enough to propel him down the staircase just before dawn in nothing but his smallclothes and call to beg the Chief Commissioner for a favour.

"Actually, Miss Fisher," he rose and took a tentative step towards her. "If you have no objection to being a servant of the law, I thought we might go together."

Phryne released the breath she was holding in a long, dizzying ribbon and quickly donned the playful mask of sinister seduction to balance the worry that still plucked at her nerves.

"It's always my pleasure to serve the law, Inspector."

Jack bit down on a sheepish grin as his eyelids fluttered in consternation at her double entendre. Despite the permission he now had to act on it if he chose to, her teasing had not lost its flustering effect on him. But he understood it better now, the way her coy words shifted something in his spine—a pillowing sensation that made it easier to bend.

"In an _official_ capacity, Miss Fisher."

"I think I could see my way clear to assist the Victoria Police Force once more." This time, her smile beamed genuinely bright as she strode over to her jewel box. "It's been far too long since we took Buffalo Bill out for an adventure." She proffered the left side of her body, holding the treasured tin star out to him. "When do we leave?"

Jack's gaze fell to her fingers. She had once told him that she was on his team; but the gift of that badge had marked his awareness that there was no one he wanted there more. The lump in his throat reminded him that there still wasn't. And so, there was no decision to be made. No weighing of duty. Her tiny gasp of delighted surprise tugged achingly on his heart.

He lassoed her 'round the waist, pulling her closer, his lips hungry as he mumbled into her warm, willing mouth, "A bit later than I'd intended."

* * *

Chapter 10

The Commissioner had arranged for the building in question to remain closed—even summoning the gas company to test the area for nonexistent leaks, a twist of irony that Jack could not find amusing in the least. It was, however, believable and should keep the truth out of the papers for a few more days.

With a flash of Jack's singed credentials, the two detectives moved past the crew, finding themselves traversing the same set of steps up which they had galloped just twenty-four hours earlier. A heavy overnight rain had ensured they were in far cleaner condition.

"You with the gas comp'ny too?" the building's caretaker asked Phryne with an appreciative, cheeky stare. "Sheilahs comin' up in the world."

Not exactly undercover, Jack was under express orders not to raise suspicions and opted to evade the question than lie outright. "We're investigating the cause of the explosion. You must be Mr. Wells."

"That's me," he answered with an easy smile. "We ain't due for an inspection fer a month. But I s'pose it's better safe than sorry. Lucky no one was hurt."

"Uh-huh," Jack hummed noncommittally. "Were you here yesterday, Mr. Wells?"

"Mister Clapp was. He's got his own set of keys—keepin' all hours like he does. I get Sundays off."

"If you weren't here," Phryne asked, her tone deceptively innocent, "How do you know someone was in the building?"

Mr. Wells fidgeted in his pocket for a moment during which Jack instinctively placed his hand on his hip, feeling for the handle of his revolver. What Wells revealed was not a weapon, but a pair of wire spectacles.

"I clean the building every Saturday, top t' bottom. I was missin' m'glasses afterward. An' I needed 'em for church," he admitted.

"So you came back Sunday morning to retrieve them?" Jack led.

"Yeah. Me and the missus. An' they was right where I musta left 'em—on the shelf in m'cupboard."

"Did you or your wife notice anything unusual, Mr. Wells?"

"Weren't here long. Still had to walk the four blocks to church an' Mr. Clapp was carryin' on a right fuss as usual. Thought it best to skedaddle 'fore he had a go at me. Never smelled no gas. That what I told them blokes." Wells pointed his thumb towards the door to indicate the gas workers outside.

"I'll make a note of it," promised the Inspector.

The detectives sized up the man in front of them, coming to the same conclusion.

"Thank you, Mr. Wells. We'll take it from here."

The Inspector's words were heard as the polite dismissal that they were meant to be.

"Suit yerselves," Wells shrugged. "Offices on this floor. They keep the records upstairs an' the boiler room's down below. I'll be here if ya need me—already turned away half a dozen folks. Not supposed ter let anyone else in the building." He eyed the marks the two had left on the marble floor. "I ought t' make myself useful an' clean up that mess."

Out of nothing more than a well-honed sense of curiosity, Phryne's head whipped around and saw the sunlight shining in the bank of windows and illuminating the outlines of their shoes in wet, white smudges where they had tread in from the door.

"Jack," she whispered, tucking into his side, "Our shoes didn't _leave_ the debris—"

"They removed it," he finished, tilting his head to view the effect at a better angle.

From her handbag, she extracted a pristine white handkerchief—one of several she now carried for the impromptu collection of evidence—and, crouching down, swept a path near one of Jack's footprints. The cloth was coated in grey dust. "There's our weapon, Jack."

"But how did the killer administer it without drawing suspicion?"

From the maintenance cupboard, the caretaker muttered an oath under his breath. "Bloody contraption… bran' new an' it's already got a bloody hole in it."

They looked at each other at exactly the same time and shouted, "Mr. Wells! No!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

Chapter 11

This is my home now. People are used to me and my books, my notions.

I've never worked down in the mines. Not for survival, anyway. But no one thinks it strange when I don a set of dusty coveralls and cap, a fraying wicker basket in hand. A dried-up raisin of a man smiles toothily at me and gestures over his shoulder. Says that there's a bit of slack in the bin I can use for my stove.

This is my home. So, I give his pit ponies a pat as I walk past and tell him to save it for someone less able-bodied than me. Old Ma Crane could probably do with some.

And just that easily, I lower myself down, down, down, my skin breaking out with the familiar cold sweat. This is my home, and theirs. By now, I'm used to walking with their ghosts. I pull out the empty flour sack, saddened that it should never be reincarnated as a little girl's dress—its destiny, like so many others around here, is a dark one. The men's sacrifice—our sacrifice—is shoveled into it until the sack is full.

* * *

Chapter 12

If Mac's tests matched their theory, the vacuum cleaner had indeed been sabotaged to store and deploy the coal dust which ignited to kill Edward Tidmuth. It was currently wrapped up in wet toweling and on its way to the morgue, the constable under strict instructions to avoid flame at all cost.

Best they could piece together, the murderer had snuck into the building unseen and laid in wait.

"If the killer pretended to be cleaning," Jack thought aloud as he searched the desk of Railway Commissioner Clapp, "Tidmuth wouldn't have suspected a thing. Just an unfortunate malfunction that left him covered in dirt."

"Never speak of this to Dot," Miss Fisher threatened, combing through the contents of a secured file cabinet, lockpick still in hand. "She's still not fond of the one at home."

He stopped reading a ledger which tabulated wages and coal sales long enough to smirk at her. "I doubt anyone is waiting to ambush Mrs. Collins with housekeeping apparatus."

An unexpected wave of relief flooded her chest at his sarcasm. Apparently, his ghosts were at bay for the moment.

"One should never discount the tools at hand, Jack." She flashed a flirtatious smile at him. "And it would seem that whomever we're dealing with knew Mr. Tidmuth quite well… His habits, his schedule."

"Or was put up to it by someone who did."

"You suspect Clapp?" she wondered, snapping the file drawer shut and handing over a document which proposed the closure of several unprofitable shafts. It had Harlan Clapp's signature on the bottom.

"There's nothing here to suggest it. In fact, by all accounts, Mr. Clapp appears to be quite a rarity, Miss Fisher… an accountable politician. But I am curious to know what they argued about."

"Perhaps Mr. Tidmuth's office will tell us."

Compared to the ostentatious office kept by Mr. Clapp, Edward Tidmuth's was positively humble. A chair on casters was suspended between two large but plain wooden desks. The one on the far side was little more than a table, home to a typewriter. The one facing the door boasted, by comparison, a brass gooseneck lamp, a black leather blotter, and a pen stand.

Standing upright like soldiers on a bookshelf that ran along the room's shorter side were volumes on government coal mining regulations and ordinances, flanked by a collection of law books that seemed to span every possible topic from corporate to marital dissolution.

"Little wonder they argued. Two very different men, from the look of it," Phryne pronounced.

Jack took in the austerity of the room and couldn't help but agree, watching with fondness as she took the dead man's seat with her usual air of belonging in whatever space she happened to occupy. He followed his natural inclinations to examine the contents of the bookshelf first, and nudged the Australian Coal and Shale Employees' Federation's latest audit report from its place.

Opening random drawers, she found Tidmuth's things well sorted and grouped by function. What she didn't find was anything interesting. "Neat as a pin. You could take a lesson from him, Inspector."

"As I'm the one still breathing, Miss Fisher," he retorted with a tidy snap of his head, "I believe that my methods prevail."

"You've got me there," she admitted, ducking down to sort through the bottom drawer.

"I'm afraid I'll have to collect later." The tome in his hands opened naturally to a place that had been marked with a calling card. He sucked in his breath at the sight of the name. "Look at this."

When no cheeky remark met him, he turned to find the feather of her mauve hat bobbing over the surface of the desk, her attention focused on the tea-coloured file jackets stacked tidily in the drawer. Across the front, each had a case number and dates inscribed in a measured hand.

"The Chief made it clear that any legal communications are strictly off-limits."

"How does he feel about secret compartments?"

"What?"

"He's stacked these notes up instead of filing them across. Not very a very efficient method for such a fastidious man." Phryne extracted the contents with a dramatic flair, revealing a piece of fitted wood several inches higher than where it should be. "But a clever obstruction."

"The drawer has a false bottom," he muttered, catching on at last.

"At last," Miss Fisher quipped, pulling a thin metal slide rule from the desk, "A use for this I can appreciate," and went to work levering the polished plank out of the way.

* * *

Chapter 13

"When did you realize Edward Tidmuth was paying off the jurors for a decision in the State's favour?"

Railway Commissioner Harlan Clapp started at the tone of chilled steel that sliced through the silence. He had expected it from the man, not the woman.

Clapp had been remanded hours ago for questioning and left to wait in this dilapidated room. Apparently, a lifetime of friendship with the new chief of police only got one so far. He had actually been glad for the company when the detectives had arrived—a sentiment he no longer harboured.

For a man who prided himself on his ability to read people, Clapp found this pair unnerving—the balance of power shifting interminably between them so he never knew precisely who was in control. It came as a shock despite Chief Tate's warning that while the case would not be handled precisely by the book, his investigators were not to be trifled with.

"Smythe, Miller, Murphy, Jones, Duncan, O'Hanrahan, Nicholsen." For each name she read from the small leather-bound dossier, Clapp's face lost more colour.

Her heels clacked menacingly along the floorboards as she emerged from the corner to stand behind her partner. The Inspector sat, still as a statue, his piercing eyes never leaving Clapp's face when she placed the notebook on the table. Beside each name in the book was a sum or a crime, written in a measured hand.

"I'm sure you recognize the names, don't you Mr. Clapp? All jurors in the latest inquest against the Wonthaggi State Coal Mine. All concluded that the deaths from the explosion were accidental, exonerating the mine of any responsibility. He got to them, didn't he?"

"There were rumours as to why he hadn't yet lost a case," Clapp gulped. "Right out of school, a young man is bound to fall and scrape his knees a few times. But not Edward." He made to look closer at the book but it was snatched just as quickly from his gaze.

"Is that what you argued about yesterday?" Jack asked, sensing that Clapp was off balance. His voice simmered in opposition to Phryne's coldness—an unsuspecting person could almost think it friendly.

Relieved that the Inspector was the one finally asking the questions, he nodded miserably before realizing that he had not spoken a word about his private conversation with Edward Tidmuth. "Wait! How did—"

"But as the Railway Commissioner," the woman interrupted, "It's your job to protect the mine's interests." _Honourable, indeed!_ Clapp thought. "Perhaps you were less than pleased that your solicitor had gotten caught doing your dirty work?"

"I believe in due process, Miss Fisher," he retorted indignantly. "If the State Mine had had any responsibility for those poor men's deaths, then we would have deserved whatever penalties had been levied at us. As it is, we're doing all we can to ensure nothing like this happens again!"

"But it did," Inspector Robinson pressed. "A man died in an explosion minutes after he was heard arguing with you. How do you explain that?"

"I— I can't. I was angry, yes. But you must believe I would never hurt Edward!"

Phryne arched an eyebrow at Jack at the implication of their charge using the decedent's Christian name—twice now in as many days. "According to the employment records, he's only been working for the Commission for a year. You must have grown close in that time."

"He was my nephew," Clapp said softly, tears forming in his eyes. "My sister's only son. I don't think she'll ever forgive me."

"Forgive you for what, exactly, Commissioner Clapp?" Jack asked.

"For luring her boy away from the quiet country life she wanted for him. She'd already lost her husband to the war, and she wasn't happy when I offered to fund Edward's schooling. But I thought he could make a real name for himself. He was a hard worker, bright… ambitious. Too ambitious, it seems."

A salty streak winding its way down his face was wiped angrily away. "I would never have thought him capable of such a thing. But a disaster like this…" Clapp straightened up tall in the hard chair, as if daring them to contradict him. "Perhaps the pressure was simply too much."

Slipping open the interview room door, Miss Fisher whispered something to the constable standing watch. Within moments, a tray was placed on the table. She took the chair next to Inspector Robinson and poured them all tea—giving the shaken man a moment with his brew to collect himself before engaging him again.

"When did you first suspect something untoward was going on?" she asked, her tone much warmer this time.

"About three weeks ago. I needed to see Edward about another matter and overheard him squabbling with our secretary."

Jack extracted the moleskine pad from his coat pocket, his pencil poised in his hand. "Name?"

"Penelope Mitchell," Clapp answered, accepting the offer of a refilled tea cup with a single nod. "I prefer to manage my own correspondence, but once Edward came on board, we needed a girl a few hours a week for typing and filing... errands, that sort of thing. She came highly recommended."

"And then what happened?"

"I saw that book on his desk, Inspector." The older man pursed his lips as though a terrible taste had assaulted his tongue. "Edward hid it very quickly when he noticed I'd spotted it. After that, he hardly ever kept written notes in his office."

"It wasn't until the inquest was over and you saw the same names printed in the newspaper that you knew for certain." Phryne interjected from behind her own teacup.

"I told him he left me no choice but to ask him to look for employment elsewhere." He tugged a crisply pressed handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket to wipe the trailing tears from his wilted moustache. "He was very angry with me. Called me an old fool."

"But he hadn't cleaned out his office," Jack observed.

"The press would have had a field day with his sudden dismissal. And he is… was… family. I thought it was best for all parties if he were to stay on doing until he found another position. Research only—no litigation."

Miss Fisher exchanged a glance with the Inspector. "It appears someone disagreed with you."

"Are you acquainted with a Mister Neville Ferguson?" Jack produced an engraved calling card from his coat pocket.

"Y-yes." Clapp's demeanour seemed to change with the change in topic. "He's with the Union. You think—"

"We have reason to believe that he met with Mr. Tidmuth," the Inspector glanced down to the card to read the inked inscription, "Last Thursday at two o'clock. Can you confirm this?"

"No," the commissioner sighed. "Edward was in court. That appointment was with me. Ferguson usually schedules our business when I'm in Wonthaggi. He's a dedicated sort—prefers to stay down there with his _brothers_ as he calls them. But he was in town on another matter and was concerned about the outcome of the inquest. Under the circumstances, I quite agreed."

"What matter?" Phryne asked.

"He didn't elaborate… and I didn't presume to ask."

"Did you share your suspicions with him?" Jack cut in.

"I hope you don't take me for a fool, Inspector," he spat. "I've fought hard to keep Wonthaggi open since the New South Wales strike ended. I hardly need a scandal on my hands to boot!" Clapp fidgeted with the gold chain of his pocket watch.

"What do you suppose would happen word got out about your nephew's jury-rigging?" asked Miss Fisher.

Clapp scrubbed his brows with both hands. "There are some people who think that the government should get out of the coal-mining business, Miss Fisher."

"People with shares in the private mines," she observed quietly, sharing a pointed look with Jack.

"Quite. I believe that information would be used to shut Wonthaggi down. It's dangerous terrain down there. The managers, the miners, they all must adhere to the strictest regulations at all times in order to work safely. And even then, there's bound to be an accident no one could safeguard against… But an explosion like that… I suppose we should be grateful we only lost four men and not four and twenty."

Jack leaned forward, his palms flat on the interview table. "So if the blast occurred despite the miners taking all proper precautions, and it was proven that the only way the State could maintain its moderate safety record was to bribe the jury—"

"The Wonthaggi mine could be declared unfit for operation," Phryne finished neatly.

"Exactly," Clapp sighed.

"So how did Tidmuth come to be in possession of Mr. Ferguson's card?" Phryne asked.

Clapp shrugged. "He wanted a meeting with Edward. I passed on his wishes and the only card I had to hand."

"Did Ferguson suspect your nephew of breaking the law to win this case?" Jack demanded.

"If he did, he never said. He assured me that he wanted to keep an open dialogue between the Union and the Commission. One thing does strike me as odd, now that I think on it. He wanted to know about Miss Mitchell."

"Your secretary?" Phryne said. "What was his interest?"

"Wanted to know who she was. Asked about her schedule. Nothing nefarious. I suppose he liked the look of her."

Ferguson's interest only underscored Jack's intent to find this woman. "Do you know where he might have gone after meeting with you?"

"No idea. I expect he caught the next train back."

"Hmm. And where did you two meet when you traveled to the State mine?"

"At the mine office, usually. But we have to be careful sometimes… the walls have ears. I keep a suite at the local hotel, we've met there. And once or twice at his guesthouse." Clapp closed his eyes attempting to recall the name of the small but well-kept place. "Run by a half-caste woman… let us take over the parlour whenever we needed. Autumn… no… Spring... yes, that's it. Spring House."

The detectives shared a glance over the man's shoulder. It was the same name Kasi Ferguson had supplied for her brother's last known quarters. They continued to discuss what Mr. Clapp knew of Neville Ferguson but it became quickly apparent that there was nothing more to be learnt.

The Inspector nodded, a neat, well-practised jab of his jaw signaling the end of the interview. "If you think of anything else, Constable Collins knows how to reach me."

"If this was murder, Inspector, I won't shield a killer to protect the State Coal Mine. Legacy be damned." The Railway Commissioner stood, gripping his bowler so tightly, his knuckles were white. "Legacy," he spat bitterly. "Who'll remember my nephew when his mother and I are gone?"

* * *

Chapter 14

Phryne huffed, throwing herself into Jack's chair. "He's telling the truth."

Jack perched on the corner of his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose, Clapp's last words still ringing in his ears. She couldn't know how right she was—though he suspected Clapp's worry that the deceased would be forgotten had little to do with her train of thought. He sighed, pushing the roiling sensation away for the moment. "I hate to say it, but your friend Neville Ferguson seems a good place to start."

"I can't imagine he's changed so much as to become a cold-blooded killer, Jack. He's the most gentlemanly socialist I've ever met… Though one never does know about a man. Have you considered the possibility of radicals closer to home?"

"The thought had crossed my mind before Ferguson's card turned up in the deceased's office. City North seized a printing press from Melbourne University not long ago—" wincing as he stretched across the desk for a file. "Used to print a weekly bulletin called _The Militant Miner_. The Labour Club denied any knowledge of it."

Phryne edged closer to him, looking up through her lashes, "I'm impressed, Jack. You _have_ been keeping on top of things."

Batting her hand away from his knee, he barely managed to stifle a groan before removing himself from his own desk. His door was wide open, for heaven's sake.

"Even if they were involved," he cleared his throat, pointedly ignoring the way she was biting her lip. "Murdering Mr. Tidmuth by fire seems a rather grisly undertaking for a university lad."

"True. But there's bound to be a few men who wouldn't mind making a name for themselves in the Party. I'll ask Bert and Cec to keep their ears to the ground."

Jack had come to terms with the near-constant presence of the two red-raggers in his lover's life—and therefore his own. Phryne trusted them not only with her life but Dot and Jane's as well. They were family. And it was for precisely that reason that he played to caution.

"I'd prefer not to involve any more people than we had to, Phryne," he said seriously. "Chief's orders."

"They know how to be discreet, Jack," she said, slipping from his chair with the grace of a jungle cat. "After all, they learned from the best."

He shot her an incredulous look—an indictment of her particular brand of discretion.

She took it as a dare instead, twisting up on her tiptoes to land a stealthy kiss, sweeping her tongue against his and retreating so quickly, it was over nearly as soon as it had begun. His startled expression fed her ego. The disappointment she read in his still-parted lips fed the hot greedy flame in her belly.

"See?" she teased, her smile widening as she heard familiar footsteps approaching.

"See what, Miss?"

"Nothing Hugh, dear," she simpered, patting the younger man's arm and leading him to sit down—distracting him long enough for Jack to wipe the waxy scarlet residue from his mouth. "Just proving a point to the Inspector."

She watched with fondness as Jack schooled his changeable features into the haughty air of a senior detective inspector. "Collins! I want the whole of your attention on this case while we're gone. Leave the drunk and disorderlies to the others. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir."

Inspector Robinson handed Collins a sheaf of notes and spent the next quarter of an hour bringing him up to speed and barking orders faster than his constable could write them down. "We need to know who had access to Tidmuth's schedule."

Hugh tucked his pencil into his teeth and flipped through his notepad to find a clean page. "Yesh, shir." He remembered to remove the pencil. "Ah, yes sir."

"The first order of business is to track down the secretary. But you'll have to do it quietly. I want to know everything she knows about the deceased and this Neville Ferguson person."

"With resources so limited," Miss Fisher cut in, "Perhaps Dot could assist."

The DI frowned slightly at this. Dorothy Collins was a capable investigator, clever, and the epitome of sound judgment. She was also with child. And, while Doctor MacMillan had pronounced both mother and baby perfectly healthy, he could not help wanting to protect them. Mr. and Mrs. Collins were good and true and the very best of people who he hoped would remain blissfully ignorant of the horrors of miscarriage. Most people would consider this an honourable sentiment.

But as a picture of a round-faced boy—with Hugh's doe eyes and Dorothy's sandy curls, reaching out for his fedora—emerged in his mind, he knew his motivations were selfish. An attempt to safeguard what he could not have for his own.

Jack bit down on the urge to banish Dot to Lilydale for the duration of the investigation. Unfortunately, in addition to her other qualities, she was also rather stubborn—a trait too deeply engrained to credit his lover for it completely. Any orders to keep her away from this investigation would be duly noted and then thoroughly ignored. He also hated to admit that the young secretary would probably be more forthcoming if she were speaking to another woman.

He surrendered his position by way of demanding that Collins telephone him twice a day at the mine office with a report. To his junior, Inspector Robinson's momentary consternation appeared to Hugh as nothing more than a case of pie cart indigestion, but Miss Fisher knew better.

She was silent on the subject until Jack had smoothly turned the police motor car onto St. Kilda Road. "Thank you… for not barring Dot from the case."

"It's not for lack of wanting," he grumbled, doing his level best to appear more annoyed than afraid and failing miserably.

"I know." she said softly, mesmerized by the shadows falling over his handsome face. "That's what makes it even more extraordinary."

Jack swallowed roughly past the lump in his throat, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the road. Pulling up neatly outside the red iron gates of 221B, Jack extinguished the motor and finally turned to meet her gaze.

The setting sun bathed his pale lashes in flames and Phryne couldn't resist casting a fond hand over his cheek. "Deep as an ocean," she murmured, nestling her thumb softly in the cleft of his chin.

The curl of her finger under his jaw deepened his breath, his chest rising and falling like a merry-go-round horse—galloping madly while pinned in place. It made her feel as giddy as a child thrusting two hard-won pennies into the carnival man's open palm.

She expected him to resist, was prepared, when his tongue darted out to press against the soft undercushion of his lip as if steadying it, for him to eschew her overtures in broad daylight. But when her gaze broke from the plush cavern of his mouth, she met his eyes, clear and blue as an autumn sky. The hand that slid into her hair was gentle and steady and drawing her closer.

"Oh," she breathed in surprise, his warmth and wonderment each making her dizzy in turn. His kiss was chaste and tender and, just like a turn on the carousel, seemed to end just before she was ready.

When last lock of her bob slipped from his fingers, she felt delightedly lopsided. It was a sensation that lingered deliciously over her—the threat of its loss had long propelled a younger Phryne to flirt or fight or scheme her way to more pennies. The stakes were decidedly higher now.

She was considering her next maneuver when a rap of knuckles on the police motor car's glass sent Jack reeling away from her. It was accompanied by an amused bark.

"Oi! What's the world coming to when even a copper can't uphold the laws of public decency?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand, Jack rolled down the window. "Albert," he muttered in resignation. Considering this wasn't exactly the first time he and Phryne had been caught in a compromising position, he still found it curious that his heart beat no less furiously than when he had been confronted by killers.

"You alright, Miss?" Bert asked with feigned concern—a ploy that might have worked if not for a grin so huge, it threatened to unseat his cigarette. "Wasn't takin' advantage, was he? Be happy to give him what's for."

"Thank you, Bert," Phryne replied coolly. "I'm sure you know me better than that." She merely had to raise an eyebrow to communicate that Bert's fun was officially over.

"Dottie said you wanted a word with me an' Cec? And I'm t' tell you that the train ain't runnin'. Dunno what for." He took a long drag in an effort to hide the smirk that still threatened his twitching lips. "Didn't look like you was goin' anyplace t' me."

* * *

Chapter 15

"Come on, Jack," Phryne wheedled as he hefted their modest luggage into the boot. After confirming that the line had been shut down due to a rail end break and not foul play, Jack had consented to going by motor car—the police motor car. "I promised to serve the law, so why don't I get a turn behind the wheel?"

He settled her tapestry bag next to his own weatherworn leather haversack. "Because it would be difficult to explain why I was forced to issue a citation against my own vehicle."

They arrived in Wonthaggi just after nightfall. With the fog rolling in from the coast, it was difficult to see anything but for the haze of light emanating from the mine—which operated in shifts around the clock. When working in a shaft five miles underground, it mattered not if the sun was up.

Phryne accepted his hand gratefully as her heel squelched in the muddy street. "Should we make ourselves known to the local authorities?"

"It can wait til morning," Jack replied, tired from the day and the drive. He rubbed absently at his aching shoulder. Nodding towards the hotel where it had been arranged for him to stay during the course of his inquiries, he gathered up their bags. "Right now, I want a meal, a whisky, and a soft pillow—not necessarily in that order."

"You forgot to mention my dazzling company," she flirted from beneath her eyelashes.

"I'm afraid that your dazzling company will be limited to supper… if I can manage to stay awake that long."

She pulled a face to which he could only shrug resignedly. "It's not the way I'd wish it, Phryne, but we do need to consider the force's reputation when we're on official business. Not everyone is as liberal-minded as you." He nudged her along with an arm around her shoulder while he balanced their luggage in his other hand. "To be honest, I'm surprised Commissioner Tate agreed to this scheme in the first place, though my sources tell me that his wife is well-acquainted with Missus Stanley."

"Aunt Prudence does have her moments—Oh, Jack, look!" Her smile was broad and child-like as she took in the span of the huge whale jaws that adorned the entry of Taberner's Hotel. Reaching out her hand, she petted the bone reverently. "How amazing!"

The corners of Jack's mouth tugged down with irrepressible fondness. "My great-grandfather worked on a whaling station."

"Really?" Her eyes sparkled in the glow of the gaslamps. "That explains the scrimshaw in your office," she murmured, delighted to unravel another of Jack's many mysteries.

"Uncle Ted used to regale me with the stories."

She threaded her hand through his elbow to tug him along, declaring in a voice dripping with pride, "I always knew you came from adventurous stock."

Arm in arm, they made their way through the crowded foyer, where orange crates served as makeshift tables and chairs spilled well beyond the allotted dining area and bar. The beleaguered front desk attendant pushed an errant blonde curl back from her face and greeted them with a thin-lipped smile. "Reservation?" When Jack confirmed their booking, the relief that flooded her face was profound.

"With the train out o' commission, we're full to burstin'," she explained. She waived a ticket at a boy who, once beckoned, trotted forward and relieved Jack of the luggage, patiently awaiting his orders. "The gentleman is in Mr. Clapp's usual room. And two-eleven for the lady. Had to turn away a fair few... an' people can be mean as snakes when they ain't had a proper night's rest. But at least we can feed 'em an' keep 'em in pints."

"The kitchen's still open, then?"

Phryne thought the hope in Jack's voice was wholly adorable—and so must have the attendant, who promised to have tea sent up to their rooms despite being obviously short-handed. The bell boy, who couldn't have been a day over twelve, bowed with a well-honed cheeky panache that Phryne guessed almost always assured him a tidy tip and beckoned them to follow.

Held exclusively for the Railway Commissioner's use when he was in town, Jack's room was by far the grander of the two, possessing a small parlour and a tiny lavatory. The whole of it could have fitted in the Windsor's en suite bathroom with room to spare, but it was obviously tended to with care—the furniture gleaming with freshly laid polish and not a speck of dust upon a surface. One crisply papered wall boasted a framed photograph of a mine shaft taken from an aeroplane; another bore a series of good-natured faces, smeared with grime and dust, and for all the world looking as though there was no place in the world they would rather be than unearthing black coal in the Wonthaggi pits.

Pouting, Phryne settled into one of the wingback chairs and peeled a sandwich from the diminished stack on platter. There was certainly someplace _she_ would rather be—and it wasn't at his table. Jack grinned at her, feeling far more generous with a cup of Darjeeling in his hand and a passable supper in his belly—despite the fact that his lover would soon need to retire to her own room for propriety's sake.

"Twin bed, Miss Fisher. It's lunacy to think I'd have ended up anywhere but on the floor anyhow. At least this way, we'll get a decent night's sleep." Her exaggerated sniff was as close to concession as he could hope to get, so Jack smoothly steered their conversation back to the case and sketched out their plans for the next day.

With an agreement to meet downstairs for breakfast, she stood to take her leave. She glanced back towards his bedroom, a small sigh on her lips, and found herself pulled into his embrace—his palm, still warm from the teacup, cradled her cheek as he pressed tender lips to her mouth. "I've heard that absence makes the heart grow fonder."

"I wasn't thinking of my heart," she clucked.

His lips quirked in restrained amusement. After so many years of enforced celibacy, Jack treasured the physicality of their relationship. Deep down, he knew she would miss him for more than just prurient reasons but his pride could be obstinate.

"In that case," he hummed, ignoring the gnawing sensation chewing on the tendrils of his heart. He nuzzled his lips beneath her hair to find the sensitive patch of skin behind her earlobe and drew his index finger like a bow down her spine—motions designed to remind himself, more than her, of the secrets they now shared. It was enough. "Perhaps you could think of me while you're busy _not_ thinking of your heart."

She shivered in reverberation and arched her neck, inviting him to mouth the lines of her throat so her skin would be haunted with the phantom press of his lips.

"I always do, Jack." Already, she was imagining laying on the small bed in her room, her clothes only half undone in her impatience to get her hands upon herself, driving her body to climax as she recalled this precise moment. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Phryne."


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

Chapter 16

I don't kill innocent people. Not like _them_. What's a few half-starved men to the State? Life means nothing when there's a profit to be made. Men blown to bits, crushed under stone. And they do it out in the open, like there's nothing to hide. The police do nothing. The courts, even less.

And what did my brothers do? What could they do? We were at their mercy. But I made it my business to keep a watchful eye on them when no one else would. Nobody knew how much time I was spending in that godforsaken city—I had become a professional stowaway… A spy. I worked long days to be in two places at once, but the dedicated train made it possible. _Their dependence on us_ made it possible.

No. I am not like them. When I found enough hate in me to kill, my target was a worthy one. When I had seen the evidence with my own eyes, I had made up my mind that very day, the plan unfolding before me like a prophecy. It was perfect. The worthless jacks would simply chalk it up to an unfortunate accident, and I could return home with peace in my heart. The ghosts, avenged at last, would allow me to rest.

Perhaps I wore my anger on my sleeve. Perhaps my eyes betrayed my true intentions, yielded the bitterness of years long past. Perhaps it could only be seen by someone who knew how it felt.

However it happened, I found myself suspected before I had even carried out the deed—months of subterfuge laid to waste by one unlucky meeting. It would not do. Justice had to be done. The sacrifice, once again, was mine to bear. I could not remain here, in my home, while my accuser drew breath.

But I am not like them. I don't kill innocent people. Perhaps it was for the best. A new town, a new name, a new life.

The injury was… unfortunate. Modest provisions of food and water had been made, an old mattress ticking, leaking feathers like a sieve, plucked opportunistically from a bin to provide warmth against the hard stone while I did what had to be done.

The delay was… unexpected. By now, I had planned to be on a train—back to Melbourne and then, to who knows where. But the broken rail meant another day in hiding, another day without medical attention for my ward—who was growing paler and weaker by the moment. But I dare not breathe a word. It would mean damnation, not just for me, but for this place.

* * *

Chapter 17

He hit the ground hard, his hands instinctively covering the back of his head, his legs paralyzed. His mouth was open, his throat hoarse. He was certain that he must be screaming. But the wailing from the air raid siren was all he could hear as he waited for the incoming shells to find their targets, the frozen hard earth chilling him through to his marrow.

A loud _**crack!**_ was followed by a sudden burst of light, illuminating grime- and dust-streaked faces in the distance. Faces who would never see the break of day again. He had been lucky thus far. Plenty of men braver and smarter than he had been struck down right before his eyes. A man would go slowly insane if he chalked his survival up to destiny, divine intervention, a misplaced sense of infallibility. No, it came down to luck—plain and simple. Jack braced himself for the onslaught, wondering if today was the day his luck would run out.

But it wasn't shrapnel that hit him first—it was a body, heavy and warm, using its substantial weight to roll him onto his back. _They must have broken the stronghold!_ He balled his fists to strike a blow against the insurgent's chest but his forearms were seized in an expert grip and held firm. _Goddamnit! What thrice-damned traitor was teaching the German soldiers judo?_

"Jack!"

 _That voice._ _No, that can't be right._ She wasn't… He couldn't…

"…Jack, look at me!"

He blinked into the blinding white light that poured in from the open doorway and cast the figure into shadow, but for a diminished haze that seemed to glow around her like a halo. It was the light seeping through her dressing gown, he realized with unexpected clarity; he had watched her pack it—the golden one with the koi fish—one of his favourites.

"Ph-Phryne?" His eyes darted around the room and found the faces of the miners haunting him from their photographs on the wall. "Those men. They perished… I saw it."

She carefully released his arms and rubbed them soothingly—whether to calm her own nerves or his was a question she would rather not examine too closely. As soon as she had realized what that howl was… who it was… she had come running, barefoot and barely dressed with lockpicks at the ready, to find him prone on the floor and stiff as a board.

"It's alright," she whispered, wiping the sweat from his brow with her hands. "You're alright."

He could hardly believe her when she looked so terrified. Disoriented, he tread murkily through the sensations—one foot in, one foot out of the quagmire—such that the cold wooden floor at his back seemed to transform beneath him into a winter battlefield. The miners morphed into fellow soldiers, proud and courageous and no more for this world. Her hands, for all they were gentle and familiar, could have been the ministrations of a field nurse doing her best to comfort him until death's angel came for him at long last.

"The air raid siren… Was it…" He hated the fear in his voice but it had been so real, he had to know for certain. "…Did I dream it?"

"No. It was the mine whistle," she explained, stroking his cheeks, determined to keep her hands on him—an anchor to this world. "They should have warned us. The war wasn't so long ago. I'm sure we weren't the only ones it startled." _When I get my hands on the hotel manager_ , she thought fiercely, _he'll wish he hadn't survived the war!_

"I… I can't move my legs."

"I think I can help with that," she murmured, pressing her lips to his temple and then maneuvering herself towards his feet. She had nearly tripped on it when she had run headlong into the room. With a grunt, she heaved and pulled the leaden doona from his legs, unwrapping him like a mummy from where it had twisted about him as he had struggled.

"There. Wiggle your toes. Can you feel them?" Her tone was serious, concerned, as she smoothed her palms up and down his shins.

He felt her hands spread warm and wide on his bare ankles and seemed to realize, for the first time and far too late, that he would hardly be fending off Germans dressed only in his smalls. The nightmare was ebbing away but his ears only grew hotter with embarrassment. He did not like the way this case was affecting him.

"I feel like an idiot," Jack hissed, the pins and needles spreading through his lower body as the blood began to circulate once more. He balled his hands into fists and drummed them down along his legs in an act of self-flagellation to hasten the process.

"Don't. Don't you dare cheapen what happened to you over there, Jack… What happened to me." She grasped for his hands, stilling them. "The memories are just as painful and real and absurd now as the war was then. They're part of us, Jack."

His voice was low and rough with the strain of holding back the tears that so desperately wanted to fall when he admitted that there were times he wished they weren't part of him, that there were times he wished he had chosen differently. If she hadn't understood so well, hadn't experienced the living hell for herself, he might never have said it aloud.

As painful as it was to consider a Jack Robinson without honour or responsibility, without justice or scruples, she did not contradict him. Nor did she shush him into compliance like a child. Who was she to deny him his feelings when she had had plenty of occasions to share the sentiment wholeheartedly? The cords in her throat tightened as she pushed the vision of Janey's remains from her mind.

Phryne brought his knuckles to her lips. "I know, darling. I know."

The suite's door secured, she leaned back against it and loosened the tie of her dressing gown so it fluttered down in a glimmering shroud as she draped herself over him. Over and over, she kissed him, until the metallic tang of fear on his tongue had dissipated, replaced with the earthy-sweet flavour of him. Jack held her close, savouring the jut of her nipples sharp against his ribs, the prick of her fingernails where her hands curled at his neck and hip, stoking the fire, easing the pain.

Making love to Jack Robinson was an adventure all its own. One she relished, one that required her full attention, and one that surprised her—though it should not have given his forewarning about tactical errors. Like the man himself, his appetites may have been borne from tradition but they ran to the adventurous. The variety in her modus operandi was extensive and required consideration of sartorial carnage, potential for disruption, proximity to her internal device.

She could have been tender with him—she had been, many times—with butterfly kisses and touches like whispers as though anything else would bruise him beyond repair. She could have handled him like he was the finest Venetian glass, as beautiful and precious as he was fragile—she had done that too and it had been breathtaking. She could have drawn him into a flippant romp of distraction, an exhilarating joining that would leave them too exhausted to fret.

In the end, her choice was a product of her mood, and his. She dug her fingers into his skin and sucked his nipple into her mouth, sponging it with her tongue. Then she bit down upon it. Hard.

If he had asked why, or been offended, she would have had no answer. She only knew that he needed release from this poisonous brew of duty and ghosts and guilt. That he needed honour… pleasure… pain.

But he did not ask… he sobbed—a gut-wrenching cry that shook a lone droplet from the far corner of his eye—and then he was gone, tangling his hands into her hair and freefalling in her warm wicked embrace.

Her hair fell forward to sweep softly against him as she slid down his torso, soothing his skin where she had nipped at his ribs. Slipping off his smalls, she nudged one of his knees upward and fitted herself in the space it created between his legs. Her fingernails seared down the back of his thigh while she mouthed the thick tendon that stretched tightly beneath his pelvis.

She nuzzled into his cock and balls and tortured him with the edges of her teeth until he was moaning and writhing beneath her, his rasping gasps loosening the tightness in her own chest.

If he could have formed words, he would have begged. But there was no need. Between the stars in the heavens above them and the horrors of the depths beneath, Phryne Fisher captured him in the warm wet heat of her mouth and wrung every last sensation out of his body.

* * *

Chapter 18

"Hugh!" Dot smiled brightly at her husband, who rounded the counter to greet her. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone brightly. Pregnancy agreed with Dorothy Collins. But so did sleuthing, and Hugh knew she wasn't at City South for a social call.

With a glance behind him, he whispered, "We can't talk here, Dottie."

"Of course not," she assured him with a sweet smile and a wink. "Mr. Butler has invited us to lunch."

They joined the comrades around Miss Fisher's kitchen table, a steak and egg pie and _salade russe_ before them, and dug in heartily.

"Dunno what Miss Fisher was hopin' fer us t' find," Bert grunted between bites. "Spent all night down at the worker's union and got nuthin' but a splittin' headache. Bastards must be thinnin' the grog with rotgut again."

"Yeah," Cec said in his quiet, reassuring way. "Nothing unusual. No one buying rounds or laying heavy bets."

"Any theories on Sunday's explosion?" Mr. Butler asked from his perch at the worktop, seemingly absorbed in applying a precise ratio of icing to a chocolate layer cake.

Bert piped up first, to no one's surprise. "Only that it won't be long 'fore the papers blame the workers for doin' a shoddy job."

"Too right," agreed Cec.

"Hmm," tutted Mr. B. He was confident that anything worth hearing would have been overheard by those two. "What about you, Constable? Any luck with the secretary?"

Hugh unwittingly snapped to attention. "No sir… I mean, Mr. Butler… ah, sir."

Sympathetic to the young man's plight, Mr. Butler laid a generous slice of cake in front of him and, fortified by the presence of dessert, Collins found the words to elaborate. "I rang her reference. The exchange belongs to a pub in Fitzroy—they never heard of her. And she didn't report to work this morning."

"Dubious references or not, I hope she hasn't not gone afoul of our killer."

"Did you get a description?" All eyes turned to Dot. There seemed to be a question behind the question and they had all worked with Miss Fisher long enough to recognise the effect.

"Uh… Yes. According to the Railway Commissioner, she's about your age, average height, average build, average looks—"

"That's a fat lot of help," Bert muttered under his breath, ignoring Dottie's shushing and the face she pulled at him.

"But there was one remarkable thing," Hugh said, determined to redeem himself. He supposed he had come to terms with the rejection of his wife's kin—it was far more important to have the respect of her actual _family_. His finger tracked through the handwritten notes in his pad, determined to get it exactly right. "He said she has red hair."

Dot's eyes widened at this piece of information. "In that case, I may have found something." She had spent her morning telephoning the numerous secretarial schools in Melbourne, in search of a former student by the name of Mitchell.

"You didn't mention the case, did you Dottie? Inspector Robinson would have my… Well, he wouldn't be happy."

"No. Well, you know how I feel about lying. But I couldn't see another alternative." She fingered the crucifix, dangling from its golden chain, in penitence. "So I told them I represented a woman who wanted to hire her, only she had misplaced Miss Mitchell's address."

The red-raggers looked at her dubiously. "Placements are very competitive," she explained. "It's in the school's interest to fill as many positions as they can." When Mr. Butler deigned to raise his eyebrow, she bit her lip nervously. "And I may have promised a finder's fee if they were able to help me locate her."

Bert cracked a huge grin. "Attagirl, Dottie. Show me someone who can't be bought, an' he's either lyin' or 'e ain't breathin'."

Dot thought wistfully of a time when she would have argued against that idea but she was no longer that naïve. "Well, I'm not proud of it… but it worked. It's a far more common name than I would have thought. Out of three women, two are the right age and one of them studied through a correspondence course."

"That just leaves the one in Melbourne to investigate," Hugh encouraged. "Well done, then."

But Mr. Butler noted the shadow that had darkened her expression. "Dorothy?"

"All the students have to take an examination in person in order to get their certificate. And the one from out of town… the school director remembered her because of her red hair. Miss Fisher doesn't believe in coincidences."

"Miss Fisher isn't here," Mr. B pointed out gently. "What do you believe, Dorothy?"

"I believe she is the one we're looking for." Dot looked between the men seated at the table. "Penelope Mitchell is from Wonthaggi."

* * *

Chapter 19

"Unngh," Jack croaked, his eyes tightening as he stirred from the spot on the floor where, utterly undone, he had fallen into a brief but blissful dreamless sleep. His body thrummed with the ache of being loved relentlessly by Phryne and his sore shoulder was screaming. "Why didn't we move?"

"You foretold your fate," she teased. "The Prophecy of the Twin Bed, as I recall." Her eyes smiled beneath impossibly long, impertinent lashes as she removed herself from his chest so he could move. "You're not hiding a crystal ball somewhere, are you Jack?"

He stole a glance along his naked length, his body rousing at the memory of how she had brought him to climax after unspeakable climax. He had never minded her rough touch before, but this had been different… intimate, and intensely private. He had needed it, _craved it_ , without possessing any conscious knowledge of the desire for himself. How had she known? How much had he unwittingly given away? With a purse of his lips, he replied in his usual sardonic fashion. "It doesn't appear that I'm capable of hiding much of anything."

Phryne followed his eyes down and back up again, her gaze coming to rest on a darkening mark, a blood moon rising over his left collarbone—one of several she had conjured with teeth and tongue and suction, nails and pinches and devotion.

"That's not precisely true," she said, suddenly serious. This case was haunting him, and he had shared scarcely any of his fears. She dipped her head to suckle the bruise softly.

A groan rose within him like a wave, undulating into a gasp. "I thought you preferred a never-ending source of mystery?"

"I usually do." She rubbed a cautionary thumb over lips—a warning. _Don't speak. I need you to listen_. "But not when it leaves you to solve it alone."

Considering that she had been dismantling his defenses since her wild surmise at the Andrews' crime scene, he should have been little surprised. When he first realised the depth of his feeling for her, he had been terrified—terrified that Phryne Fisher, human freight train, would chew him up and spit him out on the tracks in pieces too tiny to put back together—pieces too tiny to feel anything at all. But he had underestimated her.

She was stubborn, this was certainly true, competitive and strong-willed, and in light of those things, he let himself forget that Phryne was a woman who valued her happiness far more than her pride. She had found ways to show him how she felt. He could see it in her eyes, taste it in her kisses, feel it in her demanding embrace. All the same, her tenderness knocked his breath out of his chest—another blow struck to the crumbling armour around his heart. Like the new skin revealed under a felled scab, it felt tight and tender and too sensitive to touch.

Her worried gaze searched him for clues. He was wearing the sort of contradictory expression that would have distorted another face into the grotesque—the way the muscles pushed and pulled, at odds beneath his skin. It only emphasised how beautiful he was.

Jack's cheeks were plump and broad, apples lilting up in delight, like that glorious moment on her Aunt's tennis green or when Mr. Butler indulged him with his favourite supper. But surrender tugged down the corners of his lips until they rested on the plinth of his sturdy chin, surrounded by the set of his determined jaw.

"There is something I won't hide any longer." He leaned in and kissed her deeply, his tongue warm and weighty in her mouth, his fingers fluttering against her throat to trace behind her ears and thread into her hair.

Phryne felt his devotion vibrate over every pore of her skin. The way he tasted her with such exquisite intention, the distance between her knees and her toes seemed both infinitely long and infinitesimally small. Her eyes, when they opened, were muzzy and drunken with his attentions, and found Jack gazing at her.

Jack's eyes were soft and earnest. "I love you."

* * *

Chapter 20

" _Penelope_ Mitchell?" Bert gruffed, his eyes narrowed in consternation.

Cec turned the whole of his attention to his friend. "You don't think—"

"What? What is it?" Hugh was looking between them as if watching a particularly vigourous tennis match.

"Red Penny!" Bert and Cec exclaimed as one.

"Who?" Mister Butler asked.

"Red Penny," Cec repeated. "She's with the commos down there. Joined the miner's union soon as she was of age."

Dot was aghast. "Is she a miner?"

"Nah," Bert drawled. "No women allowed. But she's at the front of every march carryin' signs."

"Wasn't there was a picture of her in _The Worker_ after them blokes died? I might still have a copy."

"No need for that, Cecil," Mr. Butler said and disappeared into the downstairs study. In moments, he was laying a stack of newsprint on the kitchen counter and flipping through the contents. Bert and Cec shared a sly smile. Their Miss Fisher was truly one of a kind.

"Aha! Here it is," he said, extracting a several pages from the archive. The headline was in printed in boldface type. _Fourth Miner Succumbs to Injuries. Where Is the Justice?_ The photograph beneath depicted a large assembly of men, women, and children holding hand-lettered signs and banners that read, _Justice for the Miners_ , _Wonthaggi Coal Drives Melbourne_ , and _A Decent Wage for A Dangerous Job_. At the front of the crowd, two figures stood out.

Dorothy read the caption aloud. "'Neville Ferguson, Jr., noted activist and spokesman for the Wonthaggi branch of the Australian Coal and Shale Employees' Federation, expressed his hope that the inquest into the latest disaster to plague the State Coal Mine in Wonthaggi, Vic., will shed light on the harsh working conditions and inequitable pay. He is joined by Miss Penelope "Red Penny" Mitchell, a fixture in the tight-knit community and a beacon to the cause.' Neville Ferguson! That's who Miss Fisher and the Inspector are looking for… she knew him!"

"So it would seem," Mr. Butler agreed.

"If she suspected him of murder…" Hugh began.

"…She could be in a heap of bloody danger." Bert finished.

* * *

Chapter 21

Jack kissed the last of the tears from her face, tasting the sentiment she wasn't yet able to form into words. It hardly mattered. What he had thought he needed was an illusion, a contrivance designed to protect himself.

What he needed most was not to hear the words, but to trust himself enough to say them.

"Jack—"

He closed her mouth with his index finger, his other hand had wound beneath her gown and strummed soothingly down her bare back. "Shh. There's no need."

She beamed impishly up at him. "I was going to say that we'd better get a move on if we're going to solve this case today. Because I want you at home… in _our_ bed… tonight." To another, her coquettish masquerade might have seemed diminished by the thickness of her voice—Jack thought it rather improved on it.

He grinned lopsidedly. "So what are we waiting for?"

Inside the Wonthaggi Police Station, the local sergeant deferred to the Melbourne DI's rank with a sniff and stood to greet him. Upright, he was roughly the size of a carthorse.

"Awful long way to come to check out a missing person claim, Inspector," Sergeant Daughtry drawled, crossing his arms in front of him in a posture which made it abundantly clear that he was not appreciative of other cops on his turf—much less _city_ cops. "Coulda just wired an inquiry."

Jack had expected as much by way of reception. In the line of police work, interlopers were never precisely welcome as much as they were tolerated. As complete outsiders to this small town, outright obstruction might be a distinct possibility. It was one of the reasons he had decided not to telephone ahead.

The Inspector tucked his warrant card back into his coat pocket and gestured to the woman on his left. "Miss Fisher, here, is a personal friend of Neville Ferguson's sister."

With skeptical eyes, the sergeant turned his attention to the ridiculously dressed—albeit attractive—woman, barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes. _Who in their right mind wore all white to a mining town?_

"Kasi Ferguson contacted your station," Inspector Robinson continued, redirecting Daughtry's attention politely, but firmly.

"Yeah, and I told her the same thing I'll tell you now. He's a grown man who's prone to walkabout. It's only been a coupla days… he'll turn up."

"Miss Ferguson ended up in my office beside herself with worry when she couldn't reach her brother," Jack explained, playing what he thought was his best hand.

"Unless you got evidence to the contrary, there's nothing we can do."

"I'm not asking you to do anything," Jack replied—hardly at liberty to discuss the Tidmuth case nor intimate that he suspected Ferguson might be involved in a crime. "But as a fellow member of the Victoria Police, I thought I would extend you the professional courtesy. I don't know about you, Sergeant, but I prefer to know what's going on in my own jurisdiction. We're here at the request of Miss Ferguson. If you had seen the state of her, I'm sure you would have done nothing less."

"Sure 'bout that, are you?" the sergeant asked. His light brown eyes were intelligent and gave little away as he sized up the pair of them.

Jack steadily met the man's gaze. "I am."

"As it happens, I got me a sister who worries too much." Sergeant Daughtry eased himself back down and told the Inspector what he knew of Ferguson.

Eventually, he shifted his attention from the Melbourne cop to his companion. "You know," the sergeant said thoughtfully, taking in the lady's appearance with fresh eyes. "It's easy to forget that Nev's a toff. Smart man a' course. Bit of an odd duck. But he cares—really cares—about the workers and the town. That means somethin' around here. My ol' man was a miner. Came here in nineteen-ten when it was still a tent town. He died last year."

"I'm so sorry," Miss Fisher said. "Was it a mining accident?"

"Pneumonia," he replied. "Da thought the world of Neville. Most folks here do. Dunno what you're hopin' to find, Miss, but I'll wish you luck. Appreciate it if you'd keep me informed, sir."

Jack shook the man's meaty hand. "Of course."


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 5**

Chapter 22

Phryne accepted Jack's hand down from the police motor car, threading her wrist through his arm as they walked up to the neat white clapboard structure where Neville Ferguson boarded. Spring House lived up to its name, with its grass-green shutters and tidy window boxes. On her knees in the small front garden, a woman in a wide straw hat was digging in the earth with her bare hands.

"Good morning," Phryne called, announcing their presence.

"It is," the woman called back without taking her eyes off her work. She managed at last to free the dandelion greens and tossed them into her basket to lay alongside the freshly pulled carrots, salads, and cut flowers. She got to her feet, wiping her hands on her apron. "Some people would look at 'em and only see weeds..." Her skin was the colour of cacao and she regarded her visitors with keen, black, and seemingly bottomless eyes. "…Not you, eh Inspector?"

Nonplussed, Jack's gaze shifted to Phryne who mouthed the words, _blue wool suit_.

"I suppose I should have tidied meself up before your arrival but I don't let much get between me and my gardening." She ignored their quizzical looks and picked up her basket, then lead them in through the front door with little in the way of formality. "Come in," she beckoned. "Reckon you'd prefer tea to a proper greeting, anyhow."

She smiled beatifically and gestured to the porcelain service being laid out on the table by a young kitchen maid.

"Ah, thank you," Jack stammered.

"Go on," she said, hanging her hat on one of the hooks just inside the vestibule. "We don't stand on ceremony here. I can see you missed breakfast. I'll just wash up and join you in a moment, shall I?"

Not used to being lost for words, Miss Fisher took her seat gingerly and allowed the maid to pour her a cup of steaming tea—but she did not drink it. She stared at Jack, who chose a biscuit from the tray and applied himself readily to it, and then another.

"What are you thinking, Jack?" Phryne hissed.

He swallowed with difficulty, his chagrin souring the mouthful. "That… I did miss breakfast."

"Family recipe." From behind them came the throaty voice of the mysterious woman from the garden. In her time away, she had discarded the apron and tucked a bright orange bloom into her plait. "And last I checked, it didn't call for any known poisons."

She took a seat at the head of the table and snatched a biscuit with a freshly-scrubbed hand, crunching into it appreciatively. It was followed with a hearty gulp of tea, and after dotting the corners of her mouth with her serviette, she introduced herself at last. "Mary Briggs. I own the place."

"Detective Inspector Robinson," Jack managed at last. "…Victoria Police. And this is the Honourable Miss Fisher. She's a private detective."

The two women regarded each other carefully and, having come to some unspoken accord, exchanged a nod.

"My grandmother was Yallock-Bullock, of the Boon Wurrong, Miss Fisher. She had the true gift of sight." Mary poured out more tea for all of them. "But that didn't save her from bein' ripped from her family and her land. She made peace with her fate by takin' in every stray, waif, and orphan without thought or prejudice. I named Spring House after her favourite season. She used to say that people are like gardens, that if you tended 'em careful, bounty would follow… But plantin' the seed required a leap of faith."

"She sounds like a very wise woman," Phryne offered, considering the faith she had placed in her own unique varietals.

"Aye. Grandmother knew my calling before I did. I enjoy taking care of people. I'm good at it—makin' folks feel at home. But I was never interested in love… Too much work to be gettin' on with." Mary's dark eyes grew heavy with the burden of her thoughts.

"Miss Briggs," the Inspector said in a voice that was firm but kind. "We need to ask you some questions."

"I expect so… if you're going to find my Neville."

"Neville Ferguson?" Jack shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the feeling of wrong-footedness pervading his senses. "I didn't realize the police had contacted you, Miss Briggs."

"They didn't…" Mary Briggs held his gaze as if it were tethered, an invisible string of a kite she could tug into the wild wind. "Neville told me you were comin' for him."

"When was this?"

"Last night," she said solemnly. "He came to me in a dream."

"In… a dream?" Jack lost his composure and gaped openly.

It was too much—too surreal—dreams and ghosts and spirits haunting the living. It felt like an insult, a slap in the face, that he now had to contend with this woman's vision in addition to his own. Long moments passed, or perhaps no time at all when Phryne's hand on his knee, her warmth seeping through the wool flannel, brought him back. She was asking the woman a question.

"You said _your_ Neville, Miss Briggs. So… Mr. Ferguson is more than just a boarder here?"

"Aye. Much more."

"Do you know where he's gone?" Phryne asked.

She shook her head. "I wish I did." Mary studied the pale woman with interest. "You knew him, Miss Fisher." It wasn't a question.

"That was a long time ago."

"What is time to the earth beneath our feet? 'A woman from his past, a man from her future,' that's what he said." Mary Briggs looked between them, smiling her enigmatic smile. "And here you are. To bring him home."

The Inspector cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Miss Briggs, when was the last time you saw Mr. Ferguson in his… er… corporeal form?"

"At breakfast Friday. He said he was off to the mine to take care of some business."

"That was four days ago," Jack reminded her.

"Neville's prone to walkabout. It's not unusual for him to disappear for a few days at a time," she explained. "Might seem odd to you, Inspector… I can see you're a man of routine. But Neville said he was off to take care of some business and I didn't have any reason to think differently."

"Until last night," Phryne finished. "If you thought he was in danger, why didn't you call the authorities?"

"And say what? That I had a vision? That somethin's happ'ned but I don't know what or where?" Mary's lips wavered, equally sad as fond. "Come now, Miss Fisher. Not everyone shares your appreciation for the unknown."

The Inspector couldn't help but notice the way Mary's eyes lingered over him as she spoke the last words. He ignored it and pressed on. "Is there anybody you can think of that would have a grudge against Mr. Ferguson?"

"Neville's well respected," she replied with no small amount of pride in her voice. "He fights for the workers and holds the State to their promises. But he does it without a lot of dust-up. Appeals to their better nature. He's helped keep this place open which is more 'n most expected—especially when the mine o'er in New South Wales open'd back up last year."

"Do you have any theories on what might have happened to him?" Phryne asked.

"I wish I did. I could show you his room?" Mary offered. "Considerin' the circumstances, I don't think he'd mind."

Mary Briggs led them down a long corridor with a series of closed doors on either side and withdrew a keyring from her pocket. "I haven't touched anythin', Inspector. Jus' so you know."

"I don't recall accusing you of any such thing, Miss Briggs," Jack replied evenly.

"I could feel ya thinkin' it."

Miss Fisher bit down on a smirk and began to sort through her old friend's belongings. The wardrobe was packed so tightly, she doubted another shirt would fit. From the chest at the foot of the bed, she extracted a large valise embossed with gold initials. If he had scarpered, he was traveling light.

Meanwhile in his personal papers, the Inspector found Kasi Ferguson's telegram. The gentleman's bank ledger had debits for room and board, train fare, the local bookshop. There were also deposits lodged, presumably from his shares of the ruby mine, and a sizeable figure noted as _NSW Shale_.

"Did Mr. Ferguson ever discuss his finances with you?" the Inspector asked. "Mention any investments?"

"All my boarders have to show proof of employment. It's house policy. The Wonthaggi Union employs him to represent their interests. Beyond that, I know he comes from minin' stock. Might still have some holdin's." She straightened her spine at the sidelong glance she received. "I'm not interested in his money, if that's what you're implyin' Inspector Robinson.

"What about your other boarders?" Miss Fisher redirected, thinking of possible accomplices or estrangements. "How many are there?"

"Five at the moment. Two teachers at the school, a blacksmith, the foreman overseein' the new bank building… and… Neville, of course. My room's upstairs and my girls share the servant's quarters off the back of the house."

"You have children, Miss Briggs?" the lady detective inquired.

"What? No. Well, I've come to think of 'em as my girls. They got no one else to look after 'em. Catherine, timid thing—you met her downstairs—works in the kitchen, and Penny sorts the laundry. Helps me run the place when she's not busy trying to save the world… one union protest at a time."

Phryne plucked a photograph up from the nightstand. Kasi Ferguson smiled out of it, flanked by a tall, olive-skinned man with the same almond-shaped eyes. "An idealist, then."

"We were all young once," Mary said, "Impatient for change and justice. She's a good girl… bright. I showed her some book work and she took to it straightaway—started takin' classes through the mail so she could do more for the cause. It keeps her busy."

"Out of trouble, you mean," Phryne observed.

Mary sighed heavily. "Penny was orphaned when she was just a girl. Lost her mum in childbirth and her father died in a minin' accident. It's a heavy burden for a young woman to bear. Might have been easier if she'd been a boy—no one thinks twice if a boy goes lookin' for a fight. When Neville came along, I thought he'd be a good influence on her… it helps to have someone with life experience temper the wildness of youth."

"And was he?" Jack asked. His limited experience with wayward teenage girls hadn't much changed his opinions.

"In the beginnin'. They both subscribe to the Communist philosophy. But Neville understands both sides of the coin because of his upbringin'. Sometimes the debates over supper would get… heated, but they took it in stride—each is as stubborn as the other." Hanging limply off the back of a chair was a man's cardigan. Mary fingered the ivory knit thoughtfully. "But Penny's been keepin' to herself lately."

"Since those four miners died from that explosion." Phryne said knowingly.

"Aye. Penny thought Neville was bein' too soft with the Commission—she wanted to take a stand against the working conditions. Tried to organize a workers' strike without goin' through the proper protocol. Neville wasn't happy about that… She ain't givin' up, though. They argued about it again on Friday."

Phryne and Jack traded a loaded expression. "Perhaps she might know where Neville was headed. Where is she now?"

Jack rapped briskly on the door to the old servants' quarters, in hope that the girl might be able to shed some light on Ferguson's whereabouts. "Police," he announced—rather unnecessarily to Phryne's thinking—no one who had ever heard the sound of a policeman's knock would forget it in a hurry.

No answer. He knocked again.

"Penny?" Mary called. When it was clear no answer would come, she reached for the door handle and the Inspector stood aside to allow her to lead them in. "She's been practically livin' down at the mine since they ruled that the state held no fault in that accident. She asked me if I wouldn't mind sparin' a bit of food. Takin' it to the widows, I expect."

The quarters were sparse but well-appointed, and large enough to comfortably accommodate two young women who longed for some independence. Phryne thought of the room, barely bigger than the cupboard she had shared with her sister growing up. This place would have seemed palatial to the child she had been. Two wood-framed mirrors hung over two chests of drawers, the tops of which bore each girl's trinkets and toilette according to her tastes. A porcelain washing basin and pitcher balanced on a table between two neatly made beds dressed in matching clothes dotted with pink rosebuds. Perched upon a pillow, a well-loved quilted hare stared back at them with black button eyes.

"That's Catherine's," Mary said softly. "Penny sleeps over here." She gestured towards the hare-less side of the room. "She says she's too growny for that sort of thing… Just hurts her to be reminded, is all."

There was nothing remarkable about the plain bed save the ache in Jack's toe as his shoe collided with the heavy suitcase tucked beneath it.

Miss Fisher's eyes wandered over Penny's dresser. There was a small glass bottle of rosewater from the pharmacy, a hairbrush with a sleek wooden handle polished with use, and an embroidered patch with the crest of the miner's federation. She picked it up with curious fingers. _United in Socialism_ , it read at the bottom, and to it was stitched a holed coin.

"Miner's token," Jack breathed, brushing the pad of his thumb across the numbers stamped into the metal. "To keep track of who's working at any given time." His eyes sought out Mary. "Her father's?"

"I believe so."

The detectives soon took their leave of Mary Briggs who, with her sad, knowing smile, bade them to bring Neville home to her. She ran fingertips over the two calling cards—one with its official Commonwealth Coat of Arms and block type, the other bearing flourishes in the corners and elegant script—so vastly different and yet complementary. _Yes, they would bring her Neville home_.

* * *

Chapter 23

"You think she's telling the truth," he said, once they were tucked into the car and out of earshot.

"So do you."

His jaw tensed, throwing his profile into relief. "I think she believes it, whether it's true or not."

"The connection between two people can be very strong, Jack." Phryne couldn't help but bat her lashes at him. "After all, how else would you have been able to find me all those times I needed rescuing?"

"Firstly, it was only the one time," Jack said, ignoring her flirtations in favor of throwing the handgear, "Which you are well aware of… but I appreciate the sentiment all the same. Secondly, I'm always able to find you because you are always exactly where you should not be." To his satisfaction, the demure fluttering of her eyes gave way to a full-blown roll.

"Then how do you explain what she said? How Mary knew that I was from Neville's past? Knew what we are to each other? That you were a policeman?"

He snorted in derision. "Telepathy, Miss Fisher? You, yourself, blamed the way I'm dressed!" Indignity coloured his voice—a welcome cover for the disappointment that he didn't precisely know what they were to each other. "I don't share your leaps of faith where the paranormal is concerned. It's far more likely the product of keen observation and a guilty conscience."

"The cases have been well documented," she said, crossing her arms across her chest—whether in self-defense or self-preservation was anyone's guess. "There are more things in heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Jack."

The Inspector maneuvered the car along the dirt high street, past the stately brick post office and state savings bank that hailed of more prosperous times.

"It's no good trying to distract me with Shakespeare," he clucked. "Ferguson's sister could have easily tipped Miss Briggs off to our arrival. For all we know, they could be in it together to protect him."

"I suppose anything's possible," Phryne murmured, looking out her window at the Powlett River coal fields.

Leads of barbed wire fencing lined the rocky path and offset a shallow man-made dam, its trench snaking malevolently through the tall grass. They passed hills of splintered shale and limestone which grew into miniature mountain ranges as they drew closer to the mine shafts. In the distance, the timber towers of the poppet heads soared eerily into the sky while smoke stacks belched clouds of dark dust.

Jack was still talking… something about false alibis… but she wasn't really listening anymore. The ominous landscape bore an uncanny resemblance to scorched battlefields and Phryne was trying hard to vanquish the memories that were swirling around her like the dust of fractured stones.

The ride had grown rough as rubble found its way beneath their tires. Her wrists tightened reflexively as if she still were commanding her ambulance brigade.

"Miss Fisher?"

She didn't look at him, just stared out the windscreen at the tangled mass of railroad tracks that traversed the broken earth. Just visible in the distance was a long trestle bridge that plunged her into a past that would never leave her.

"Phryne?"

He tore his eyes from the road just long enough to see that her complexion had turned to chalk. If Jack had had his wish, he would have pulled the vehicle over and held her close. But they were approaching a sentry box and he suspected that their day would not improve with the firing of a warning shot. He settled for taking her hand in a firm squeeze.

"Stay with me, Miss Fisher," he ordered. Beneath the authoritative veneer, his voice was etched with worry.

The guard waved them through without incident, directing them to the largest in a cluster of huts situated just beyond the rigging. But the checkpoint had a sobering effect upon Phryne—it reminded her that they were in the middle of an investigation. She had removed her hand from the and straightened her spine against the bench seat. By the time he had cut the motor, she was touching up her powder in a small handheld mirror.

His brow furrowing beneath the brim of his fedora, he watched her snap the compact shut and tuck it into her bag. There was an insistence, a falseness, to her movements that he did not like. "What did you see back there?" he asked at last.

"Nothing." Her voice was pitched too high to be convincing to anyone who knew her as well as Jack did.

"Phryne, please." He reached for her fingers. They were icy cold and tugged out of his closing grasp at the last possible moment. His empty hand dropped to the expanse of seat that separated them. "I know what you're doing." It was more confession than accusation. His middle finger tapped out a staccato as he measured his thoughts. "I mastered it… at the expense of my marriage."

She swallowed heavily, and with a vice-like grip, strangled the urge to simply fling herself into his arms. But it wouldn't do to allow him to rescue her now. Not like this, not when there wasn't a revolver pointed at her temple, or a knife at her throat. Her childhood taught her that the only constant in life was change and that she had to depend on her own wiles to survive it. To let herself fall to pieces now meant that she might come to rely on him to help put them back together.

She had learnt to trust more than she had thought herself able. But even her most trusted friends never got all of her. There was too much Collingwood in her, perhaps too much of her father—transferred by blood and influence. Jack was the only one who had ever gotten this close. He loved her—this was not a surprise to her. What _was_ a surprise was the fact that he had said it. And now he was talking about his relationship with Rosie.

It was rare for Jack to bring up the subject of his failed marriage. She had been very curious at first, restraining herself from prying out of respect for him, but it wasn't difficult to imagine how it had happened. Jack had told her as much he could after the Saul Michaels case—the war had turned him into a different man. Since then, she had learnt that he possessed quite the dramatic streak, could out-stubborn an ass and be just as much of one when the mood struck, and was habitually independent to a fault. Phryne did not want to dwell on the familiarity of those qualities when she had seen her own reflection in the compact mirror.

What that meant for them, she could not say. Mary Briggs had called him her future. Jack was most certainly her present—the space Phryne preferred to enjoy. He had come after her when she had to leave. And she had gone after him when he had to return. But the grandness of a romantic overture does not determine its longevity, and she was frightened of depending upon anyone—even Jack Robinson—that much. What would happen if she got used to him always being there… and then he wasn't?

"I'm fine, Jack," Phryne lied.

He wanted to bark at her, shake her, beg her if he had to— _Don't do this…Don't shut me out_ —but remonstration would only drive her further away. He knew this from experience, and because he was just as guilty as she.

Their relationship was a complicated, multi-layered thing. In its core glowed a molten ball of desire—desire for justice, for challenge—that pointed his moral compass to due north and fueled the heat of her convictions. A bubbling mantle flowed around them that erupted in spouts of temper or jealousy or wildly erotic encounters that left them dizzy and dazed, but with new ground. But the bedrock was their partnership, fused by heat and time and pressure into a solid foundation of respect and friendship which they had spent the last year exploring to unearth its hidden treasures. Together, they had discovered rich seams of joy and bords of unimaginable pleasure. But amidst them were still pockets too dangerous to tread for the ghosts harboured there, and one or both might be crushed in a fall of stone if they were uncareful.

"You were right when you said I don't have to do this alone…" His voice was tight and his eyes were pools of thunderhead grey, mirroring the chaos swirling within. "…But, then, neither do you."

Jack did not push the subject any further. It would be the height of hypocrisy, and utterly arrogant, to demand that she expose her fears when he, himself, was still secreting his own.

* * *

Chapter 24

His overcoat flapped wildly in the heavy wind, and Phryne took comfort in its rust-red lining which beat like a pulse against the desolate greys and browns of the structures and the men that surrounded them. Empty skips disappeared on tracks into the deep dark caverns, with their openings like hungry mouths. The cars would eventually emerge on the other side loaded with round coal to power the vast Victoria rails. Above, the headwheels loomed at the ready to lower men into the bowels of the earth to toil at the end of a pick, their future uncertain, their sacrifice well out of sight. Phryne caught Jack up and they strode up to the mine office together.

They were shown into the office of a ruddy-cheeked man behind a very large desk, who waved them in. Except for a window, the space was wallpapered with maps and hand-drawn plans. "You the detectives from Melbourne?"

Jack was scandalized. "Is everyone in this town psychic?" he whispered bitterly, producing his warrant card for proof.

"Mr. Clapp said to expect you." He nodded at the credentials and accepted a small white calling card from the lady, smoothing what was left of his thinning blond hair as he read it. What a lady detective—and an Honourable at that—had to do with this business, he could not fathom, but the look on her face told him plainly that she was not to be trifled with. "Richard Moppe," he said cordially, shaking each of their hands in turn. "Welcome to the State Coal Mine. The new regs are all in place, Inspector. I can take you through if you like but the lady'll—"

"Regs?" Phryne interrupted.

"Safety regs, miss. Since Number Twenty..." The man's mouth took on a pained grimace. "We got enough Davy Lamps for every shaft and bench now." Phryne followed his gesture to a long cylindrical mesh lantern that hung on a hook in the corner of the office. "Deputies test for gas each shift."

She walked over to examine it more closely. Up the side was a metal aperture with notches cut at odd intervals and measurements beside each. "I take it that the height of the flame indicates the safety of the environment."

"Er…yes." If Moppe's expression was bemused, it was only because he couldn't help being a little impressed. "If there's flammable gas in the chamber, the flame burns higher up that sleeve and takes on a bluish colour. And if you place it on the ground and the flame goes out, it means there's bad air… not enough oxygen."

"Carbon dioxide is denser than air," the Inspector mused, unable to help himself. "So, it sinks."

"That's right… but the lamps are finicky. A broken wire or a bit of rust and they're finished. Most of the men still carry canaries to check for blackdamp… they trust 'em. Birds can only do so much to prevent an explosion but they sure as hell can keep a man from suffocating… and I'll take any precautions I can get. Talked my wife into breeding 'em—"

Phryne's shudder was nearly imperceptible but it was enough for Jack to imagine her donning the heavy rubber-coated mask issued to protect against an incoming plume of poison. He quickly redirected the line of questioning. "We're not here to verify new safety protocols, Mr. Moppe. We're looking for Neville Ferguson."

"Where's he gone this time?"

"We were hoping you might be able to tell us. His sister has reported him missing," Miss Fisher said, carefully replacing the lamp on its hook and working equally hard to keep the tremor out of her voice. "She believes it's more than just his usual penchant for walkabout. When was the last time you saw him?"

"That'd be last week… Wednesday night. He was down at the Workman's Club. Good thing he was, too. Otherwise, a dozen of my men would have been decorating Daughtry's cells instead of on their morning shift."

"There was an altercation?" Jack probed, thinking this might be just the lead they needed.

"Spirits were running pretty high after they said the explosion was the men's own faults… but Nev broke it up before anyone got hurt. Made 'em all shake hands and then sent 'em home."

"Mr. Ferguson gets on well with the workers, then?" Phryne prompted.

"Who do you think got us them lamps? Most of the men probably owe Nev their lives for that."

"What kind of relationship did Mr. Ferguson have with Railway Commissioner Clapp?" Inspector Robinson asked, finding it difficult to believe anyone but Neville Ferguson could have sent such a specific message to Clapp and expect it to be translated and understood. Jack felt that Ferguson was counting on the Commissioner's position and pride to keep silent, to protect him. "Were they on good terms?"

"Better than I would have expected," Moppe admitted. "Neville don't have a hair-trigger like most of those commos. When the accident happened, he wrote Clapp straightaway, angling for more precautions, better safety equipment… convinced him it would make the State seem like a noble benefactor."

"And what about after the inquest?" Phryne interrupted, tearing her eyes away from a map detailing the tunnels surrounding Shaft Number 20, where the explosion had taken place. "Did Neville still think them noble?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Fisher." He would not look her in the eye, choosing instead to roll a pencil between his nail-bitten fingers. "But I'm not supposed to talk about the case."

"I'm not asking about the case. I'm asking if Neville seemed different after the ruling."

Moppe was quiet for a long moment before sighing heavily. "He was angry—but so were a lot of folks. Four men dead and if that weren't enough, three widows left behind with little ones to feed… and no pension."

"The 'accidental' verdict means the State won't have to pay death benefits to the families." Jack said shrewdly.

"Nev was headed up to Melbourne to discuss it. But the federation's been raising money ever since the accident happened. And Penny started banging the tambourine straightaway… sooner die herself than let them kids starve. She was a mine orphan, too."

Phryne was just about to inquire more about Penny when a stout young man rapped on the doorjamb.

"Sorry to interrupt, sir. But your guests are wanted on the telephone." He consulted a slip of paper and read, "A Constable Collins… and a Mrs. Collins. Mrs. Collins was, er, rather insistent that she speak to you first, miss." He scratched his head thoughtfully. "Funny both callers havin' the same name."

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. "You've no idea."

Moppe directed the messenger to patch the call into his line, offering the detectives some privacy. "I've got to check after some repair work, anyhow. You can meet me out on the decking when you're through." The telephone on Moppe's disheveled desk rang just as the office door had clicked shut.

Phryne plucked up the receiver and nudged it between her ear and Jack's, tipping the hat from his head. "Dot!" she said excitedly, "What have you found?"

"Miss Fisher!" Dottie trilled from the other end, "You won't believe it…" As ever, Dorothy Collins was right. Whatever they had been expecting, it was not the news they had received.

"Penny was Edward Tidmuth's secretary," she said as soon as the call had ended. "I'd wager the Hispano on it."

"I won't take that bet," the Inspector retorted in dark tones. He carded a hand through his hair and replaced his fedora. "And I doubt she and Ferguson were arguing about a miner's strike the morning he disappeared."

"If Penny found out about his plans and confronted him, why would he let her go? She might have turned him in."

Jack did not need to consider this for long. "He wouldn't be much of a negotiator if he wasn't persuasive. And according to your red-raggers, Miss Mitchell has radical leanings if her _nom de guerre_ is any indication. Perhaps she went along with it after he explained his reasons."

Phryne's mouth pursed into a thin line. She did not relish the possibility of a young girl getting wrapped up in Neville's scheme—especially not one who had already been put through the wringer. "He could have convinced her she was mistaken. Hugh said she hadn't reported to work… that makes sense with the train still out of commission. Penny may still be unaware of Tidmuth's death."

"For her sake, Miss Fisher, I hope you're right."

Outside, Moppe was giving orders to a group of men. At the sight of the detectives, he excused himself, but his party seemed to be waiting for his return. "Couple of my engineers and the mine inspector," he said with a tilt of his head towards the group. "We finally got the work orders to cut in some more ventilation. Still waiting on the go ahead for Number Nineteen though. It's been off the coal for more than a week. The bords are running way too hot for anyone to risk their neck down there."

"I'm well-acquainted with government bureaucracy, Mr. Moppe," the Inspector said dryly. "You mentioned someone by the name of Penny earlier. That wouldn't happen to be Penny Mitchell, would it?"

Moppe extracted a dust-coloured rag from his pocket and wiped his brow. "Thought you were interested in Ferguson."

"We are. She was overheard having an argument with him on the morning he was last seen."

"That's not unusual. I told you she's a mine orphan. Penny tries to get the workers all stirred up at the meetings. She and Neville didn't see eye-to-eye. I wasn't always the management, you know, I've done my time in the pits. And I learned there's a time and a place for everything. You can't threaten to strike every fortnight and expect to be taken seriously."

Jack considered this information carefully. It seemed to line up with Mary Briggs' account. "We've heard she goes by the name _Red Penny_ … and that it has little to do with the colour of her hair. What can you tell us about that?"

Moppe laughed derisively. "I think the Union gave her that nickname. They use her as a kind of a mascot—a symbol when it suits 'em—but Penny don't have that kind of clout. She's just trying to find her way in the world. 'Bout a year ago, she asked me if I'd let her help out around the office… wanted to practice on the typewriter, you know, to improve herself."

"And you allowed it."

"Inspector, if I've run her off the benches once, I've run her off a thousand times. I keep telling her that she's going to do herself an injury one of these days—even gone so far as threaten to have her arrested for trespassing. But she thinks it's her birthright to be here. If she's in the office, I know she's safe."

Miss Fisher was intrigued—the world needed nice girls, too, but there was something about an independent spirit. "We'd like to ask her some questions about Neville Ferguson," she said. "Perhaps she knows where he's gone and we can put his sister's mind at ease."

He weighed detectives with a calculating eye, used to separating round coal from slack. "Hey Frank!" he finally called, "You seen Penny afoot?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 6  
**

Chapter 25

It was no surprise to Moppe that the girl had last been seen heading towards the northern fields, home to the ill-fated Number 20 shaft. "Fastest way to get there is to hop on the mine rail… direct route as the crow flies. You could take your vehicle but you'd have to circle the entire perimeter."

Moppe watched the loaded skips from the north headed for Dudley Brace, where the coal was sorted and relieved of its dirt bands by the mine's youngest workers. On a parallel rail, a steam locomotive monitored the operation and provided transport between the mine's three precincts. He removed his handkerchief again and waved it in the air, flagging the train down to a walking pace.

"All aboard," the operator said with a mocking grin, just polite enough not to earn himself a reprimand. He'd seen it before… influential city folk come down to have a look at the quaint country mine. The gent in the overcoat didn't look like a politician but he was certain his missus could sell sand to a Turk.

In less than five minutes' time, they had reached the northern precinct and disembarked, the railman waving them off with a derisive little salute, and they scanned the scene in carefully in search of Penny Mitchell.

The grounds surrounding Shaft 20 were a flurry of activity. _Field maneuvers_ , Jack thought. There were no other words for it. Each man moved in an orchestrated harmony dependent on his rank and station.

A small battalion of clippers uncoupled the tonnage from the ponies and tied them off to the long ropes in a well-practised offensive known as the _endless haulage._ In another area, stone was unloaded from bins using a portable winch and still more men rushed about carrying clipboards and taking tallies of everything. A Davy Lamp swung off a man's arm, bound for one of the pits.

In the shadows of the hulking structures, a corral of hardy pit ponies was being fed while their wheelers looked on fondly. Shifts done for the day, the men—filthy from top to toe—waited until after the animals had their hose down before taking a shower of their own, and prayed there would be some hot water left over. A melancholy smile drifted across Phryne's face as she remembered how a French soldier had fitted his collie with an M2 before donning his own.

"The day our unit got a ratter was one of the happiest of my life," Jack sighed into her ear, reading her mind and startling her out of her reverie. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, as if he wasn't certain he had spoken the words aloud. His eyes were apologetic disks of slate. "I didn't mean to—"

"No harm done, Jack," she said quietly.

Moppe escorted them around the field, checking in with his men and asking after Penny. More than one had confirmed that she had been there earlier—stocking medicine in the small infirmary and feed in the barn. There was a rumour she had been helping break in one of the new pit ponies. "If she were a boy, I would have hired her outright as soon as she turned fourteen," Moppe said regretfully. "She's got a way with the horses. Woulda made a fine wheeler. But the law's the law… eh, Inspector?"

Striding just a few feet away from him was living breathing proof that a woman was every bit as capable as a man, if not more so. Yet, the Inspector knew all too well the high price of that equality, and understood why other men were not willing to entertain it. He would never admit it to Phryne but a piece of him turned to ash every time he watched her step in front of an assailant's weapon—as if was his sacrifice to bear, not hers. Were she a less magnificent woman, he doubted he could have withstood it.

Jack dug his hands deep into his overcoat pockets. "We should check inside."

There was no flaming tangle of Penny's red hair within the long low building which, Moppe explained, housed the communication center for the northern precinct, relaying messages to his office in central, and his counterpart's in the east. Phryne spotted the small infirmary that one of the miners had mentioned, thinking it seemed better equipped than some of her outposts had been.

At the last corridor, Moppe made a halting motion with his hands. "All that's beyond here is the way to the washing stations. Sorry, Miss Fisher, but I can't allow you past."

She shot the Inspector a look that clearly said, "Shall I tell him about the Abbotsford locker rooms or would you prefer to?"

"I doubt very much Miss Mitchell could be hiding in there without the entire precinct knowing about it," Jack agreed, trying to encourage Phryne around with a firm grasp at her elbow.

She slipped easily out of her coat, leaving Jack with nothing but an armful of wool and white fox, and turned defiantly down the forbidden hallway. It was a matter of only a few steps to catch up with her, though, because she stood mesmerized by a large wooden board upon which dozens of tiny nails formed a precise network of rows and columns.

From roughly half of the nails hung the same sort of brass tokens as they had seen in Penny Mitchell's bedroom. Each was stamped with a unique number. Beneath each of the bare nails, the number of the missing token was tattooed on the board. Phryne ran the tip of her gloved forefinger down a line of odd coins and the light winked off their surfaces… counting them off… _eeny, meeny, miny, mo_.

Noticing Phryne shiver, Jack replaced her coat about her shoulders. "She's not here," he said quietly. "We should head back to town, talk to some of the men down at the Workmen's Club. Moppe can ring us there if she turns up—"

She was on the verge of nodding agreement when the doors burst open. "Call for the ambo!" a man yelled to the room at large. His shirtfront was mottled with blood. "Make yerself useful or get out the way!" he snarled at Jack, who scurried to hold back one of the doors so the procession could file in.

Nestled in the center of the human caravan was a young man—a kid, Jack thought—no more than twenty, who was cradling what was remained of his left hand to his chest and howling, spittle foaming in the corners of his mouth.

Moppe grabbed one of the men by the yoke of his shirt and demanded information. "Joe Duffern, sir. A clip broke loose and pinned his hand 'tween the skips." The worker's eyes followed Joe as he was carried through on a stretcher. He could see the medic was already filling a syringe with morphine. "The ambulance—"

"Is on its way," Moppe assured him, before catching the curve of a white felt cloche amidst the sea of earth-coloured men. "Miss Fisher!" he bellowed.

"I was a combat nurse," she called over her shoulder, her feet never faltering as she made her way towards the medical station, peeling off her gloves.

Titled or not, he had no more time for her games or any further distractions. "You are forbidden to enter the infirmary."

Phryne spun on the spot, eyes blazing, "That young man has sustained serious trauma! I can help… I've seen this before. If we don't treat him properly now—"

"It's not up for debate." Moppe straightened his back and swept the front of his clothes with his hands, his patience scattering like the dust motes. "I'm sure you're a capable woman but the medic can handle it until he's transported to hospital."

"But—"

"I'm sorry, Miss Fisher. But despite the latitude you're used to, you don't get a say here."

* * *

Chapter 26

Phryne had managed to put quite a distance between herself and Number 20 in her anger. When Jack caught up to her, she was pacing through the low scrub and cursing Moppe—and most of the unfairer sex—through gritted teeth. At the sound of tyres spitting rocks from their treads, her head turned towards the structure. The mine's ambulance had arrived for Duffern at last.

"Stupid man!" she spat. Jack wouldn't have been surprised if the paint on the building had blistered under the intensity of her stare. "I could have helped! I could have—"

"I know you would have tried, Phryne." He succeeded in stilling her, partly by the low intimate sound of her name on his lips, partly by the gentle but firm grip of his palms on her shoulders. "But neither of us can know the outcome. I'm not defending him, but Moppe has his protocol to follow."

She gave him a withering look.

"I said I'm not defending him."

"And yet," her tongue clucked against the roof of her mouth, "You are." She twisted out of his grasp and crossed her arms firmly, turning her back on him and the godforsaken mineshaft.

"No. I'm saying that some rules cannot be broken."

She bowed her head and hugged herself tighter. "That boy could die."

"He could," Jack admitted, splaying his hands wide in supplication. That she could not see the gesture was irrelevant considering the soft, steady solemnity of his voice.

"And if it happened under your care instead of theirs, there would be a lot to answer for. Phryne, in the presence of licensed medical personnel, you will not be acknowledged as the most qualified person in the room." His shadow stretched over the low grass towards hers as he moved to shield her from the wind. "Even if I think so."

"The Riqueval Bridge… that's what I saw, Jack." She did not turn around. It was far easier to speak into the air, allowing the current to buoy them as she could not.

It was barely a whisper, and it made him freeze where he stood.

He had considered, from time to time when he allowed himself such larks, what it might have been like to have met Phryne during the war. He fancied that he would have noticed such a spark alighting within a wounded but fiercely determined young woman. That he, even with a lock of Rosie's hair pinned to the inside of his uniform, would have remembered her.

Based on what she had shared, the possibility of their paths crossing had been remote at best… Until this moment.

Stunned as he was by the revelation, his mind still reeled for its connection to Wonthaggi. It finally came to him with sudden clarity. _The trestle bridge_ —they had passed it driving into the coal fields. While they weren't twins, the two structures did bear a certain resemblance, which only grew stronger silhouetted against the desolate scenery.

He licked at his lips, a self-conscious tell that materialized whenever presented with some deep truth. "You never mentioned Saint Quentin," he said tightly.

"It was long before you were there." Her words brimmed over with apologetic regret and an absurd longing. No one—not even a dashing Lieutenant Robinson from Australia's 2nd Division—could have shielded her from that hell.

"It was a mercy mission," she explained. "The French Army had already withdrawn but the Germans held the line and wouldn't allow the ambulances through… I could see them, Jack. Worse, they could see us… and there was nothing we could do—"

He gently encouraged her to turn around. When she met his eyes at last, there was no pity in them—only a lingering sadness that told her just how much he understood that particular feeling of helplessness. His strength, his warmth, they were precious treasures that he offered her freely and, so, were truly priceless.

Phryne doffed her hat. Clasping its brim tightly in her fist, she ground herself in the familiar scratch of wool against her cheek and breathed him in, allowing him to bear her weight against his chest. Allowed him to hold her up in the circle of his arms. Allowed herself to take comfort there.

He dipped his head and pressed kisses to her hair, smoothing his hand along its windblown length. "You're not responsible for saving everyone, Phryne."

"I know," she lied. Her fingers toyed absently with the buttons of his waistcoat. "Do you believe in fate, Jack?"

"As in pre-destination?"

The top of her head knocked slowly against his chin as she nodded against him. _How easy that would make it_ , he thought darkly, to chalk the lot up to something out of his control.

He thought, as he often did, of the dead—of the countless faces, friend and foe, stranger and beloved, that he watched grow cold before his eyes. Of how some went willingly and some fought until the bitter end—each a credit to its own brand of courage. He took a deep steadying breath and she could feel the rumble in her own chest.

"I believe in the choices we make. And those choices carry consequences."

He brushed his lips against the shell of her ear, giving himself a moment to swallow around the weight of his words, heavy in his throat. "Some are felt more deeply than others. Those men weren't fated to die, Phryne, it was the choice of some _Oberstleutnant_ to not let you pass. Even still, some might have survived, because what's left over is a concoction of skill, nerve, and sheer, dumb luck."

She grew very still and very quiet and, for a moment, Jack worried that he might have overstepped… until he felt the heat of her lips on his throat seeping through his skin.

"Is that what got us here?" she whispered against his pulse, "Sheer, dumb luck?"

"I think you're underestimating my stubbornness, Miss Fisher."

His mouth quirked amusedly but there was a wonderment in his eyes that took her breath away. Tilting up on her toes, she kissed him softly and slowly, savouring his hum of surprise as it vibrated down her sternum. Jack generally frowned upon such public displays while they were working a case, preferring to abide by the rules of professional decorum. But there was no censure in the press of his mouth or the tension in his fingertips against her spine… and Phryne never did have much use for rules.

She slipped her tongue between his parted lips to fully dissolve into the enveloping sensation of _him_. Like sinking into a hot bath, the kiss sent wave after rolling wave of warmth through her to penetrate the chilled, brittle recesses of her body. Each undulation fortified her nerves until they unfurled, supple and revived and glowing—the same fiery shade as the silken lining of his overcoat—with a heat of their own.

His eyes remained closed when she pulled back at last, and he pressed his lips together as if he could capture the feeling and tuck it away in a pocket as easily as the snowy handkerchief he used to remove her lipstick from his mouth. When his lids fluttered softly open, he was greeted by her guileless smile, spreading slow and wide and ruining him with every passing second.

"Jack," she breathed. It was overwhelming—the intention of telling him what he meant to her, what he did to her, how her knees turned to pudding watching him when he thought she wasn't looking. Suddenly nervous, her eyes darted aimlessly, finally settling on a faraway point just over his shoulder.

She dropped to the ground in an elegant heap. "Get down!"

"I admire your enthusiasm, Phryne, but this is hardly the time or the place—"

"It's not an overture, Jack…" Her foot caught the back of his knee causing it to buckle, and he landed in the scrub with an _oof_ , hands splayed beneath his shoulders to catch his weight.

With a hand to his cheek, Phryne directed his irritated glare aware towards a distant opening in the earth by which a short, squatty horse had emerged. "There! Look."

With a grumble, he squinted and tilted his hat to ward off the glare. "Could be an escapement tunnel. It's about the right distance from the main shaft."

"But Jack, the escape route for this shaft heads south of here. She fished a small silver spyglass out of her handbag and tracked the distance and degrees from the distant headframe that stood against the horizon. "That's the route used for Shaft Nineteen. I saw it on the map."

"But Nineteen—"

She looked at him squarely. "Is supposed to be closed."

The pony's ears pricked up and it lifted its head from where it had been grazing, only to head back into the mouth of the tunnel and out of sight.

"Unusual behavior," Phryne observed. "I can't imagine it would return below ground without a command or a palm full of feed to entice it. So, tell me, who would risk their life to hide in a place so dangerous?"

"Ferguson," Jack hissed.

"Unusual behavior," she repeated, closing her eyes. "Why would he come back here, Jack? Why didn't he simply leave the state after killing Tidmuth?"

Remembering the suitcase beneath Penny's bed, he couldn't shake the feeling that she was somehow complicit in all this. "Perhaps he didn't want to leave the girl behind. Mary Briggs implied that Miss Mitchell and Ferguson were close. He could have come back to collect her and gotten waylaid when the Wonthaggi rail shut down."

"Neville and Penny Mitchell… lovers, Jack? While he was in a sexual relationship with his land lady… the same woman who happens to look after the girl like she's her own?" Phryne seemed rather impressed. "That sounds like the plot of a lurid novel."

"Stranger things have happened," he shrugged. "Or maybe he always intended to return and counted on Clapp to understand his message and keep it a secret to protect his own reputation. Just to be safe, he's laying low until Tidmuth's death is ruled an ironic accident."

With a flick of her wrist, Phryne replaced her hat upon on her head. "All very interesting theories, Jack," she said, trading the spyglass for her pearl-handled pistol. "Shall we go and find out?"

* * *

Chapter 27

They approached the tunnel cautiously from the eastern flank, covered by the limited visual range of the opening. But with only one way in and out, there was little they could do to maintain the element of surprise.

"If Ferguson's in there, he'll be close to the surface where the oxygen levels are higher. But if he feels threatened…"

"All the more reason I should go in first," Phryne insisted, tucking her gun into the pocket of her coat. "Then you can cover me."

"Phryne." Jack hesitated. Asking her to be careful wasn't the kind of request to be made lightly. "If he runs towards the shaft, promise me you won't follow him."

" _That_ sort of asphyxiation isn't my idea of fun, Jack." She placed a hand to Jack's chest, rubbing the silk of his tie between her fingers with a sultry bravado. "You know that."

There was only one thing for it. He agreed, then kissed her, swift and hard. "And I'd prefer the opportunity to deepen that education… So be safe."

He glanced at his watch, feeling like his heart might beat clear out of his chest the way she was smiling at him with all her teeth. "You've got precisely two minutes."

Choosing her light grey kid heels this morning seemed an unforgivable mistake to Phryne as she took the first step into the dark tunnel. Loose ground skidded beneath her feet and she reached out to steady herself against the earthen wall.

She extracted a torch from her décolletage and shone it up at the dirt ceiling just ahead of her. It had the effect of illuminating the path as well as her face. "Neville?" she called. The pony whinnied somewhere close by and the titter of a small bird reverberated through the cavern. "Neville Ferguson?"

"Who's there?" a scared voice huffed. Phryne recognised the tinny British accent immediately.

"It's Phryne Fisher, Neville. From London… do you remember?" She hoped the fond memories would buy her a small reprieve.

He sounded confused and small, though he couldn't have been more than a few yards away. Ferguson mumbled something that might have resembled, _Honourable_. "Ph… Phryne?"

Slowly angling the beam of light, she caught sight of a boot sticking out from beneath a pile of blankets. Next to it on the ground was a tiny wire cage in which a bright yellow bird seemed to be assessing her. A gust of frigid air crept down the back of Phryne's neck as she stepped closer, and she tugged her coat tighter around her body, feeling the butt of her gun press against her hip.

"Are you alright, Neville? Can you come into the light?" Her tone was light and soothing, as if she were comforting a child. Phryne began to suspect that something was not right—and she needed to figure out what it was before Jack endangered himself.

"Can't," he wheezed.

Swathed in blankets, Neville was tucked into a shallow bend in the tunnel. His once handsomely tan face was grey in pallor and, despite the chill, pearls of sweat beaded and fell from the crown of his head. She scanned the surroundings for weapons, finding none. _Even if he had killed Edward Tidmuth_ , Phryne considered, _he was no danger to anyone like this_. The Angel of Death stood over Neville Ferguson as surely as she did.

"How…" With pupils the size of pinpricks in the accosting light of her torch, he gazed raptly at her. "…I thought it was only a dream." His outstretched hand met the side of her face as she crouched down beside him, and his eyes went slowly out of focus.

Divining his fever with a wrist to his forehead, she was loath to remove the blankets from him. But needed to know what she was dealing with. There was an unnatural bulge just above his knee and heat seeped through the fabric of his trousers. "We need to get you out of here," Phryne mumbled, knowing she would never be able to move him on her own.

Behind her, the sound of careful footfalls padded closer. "Help me get him up," she called over her shoulder, refusing to take her eyes off the man dying in front of her. "Once we're out of the tunnel, we can use the horse."

The terse voice which replied was distinctly not Jack's. "You're the woman he's been mumbling about in his sleep... Franny."

"This isn't at all how I imagined making your acquaintance," Phryne sung in a half-whisper, slowly coming to her feet to take in the sight of the red-haired young woman dressed in a boy's rough clothing. Her stance was aggressive—a lantern in one hand, a gun in the other. Jack had been right in thinking the girl complicit. "Penelope Mitchell, I presume."

"Penny," the young woman corrected, her mouth forming a hard, thin line. "No one calls me Penelope but my father. Drop that torch."

Phryne complied readily, but the young woman didn't seem satisfied. "Where's Mary?"

"Who?"

"Mary Briggs," the girl demanded. "Neville said his past and his future were coming for him…" Penny released the safety latch and the tiny click ricocheted off the walls as though she had fired a shot. "And you were just talking to someone else. Don't play dumb."

"Oh!" Phryne trilled in a falsetto, cottoning on at last. Penny had misheard Neville's fever dreams about and thought he was referring to _his_ new love when he spoke about the future. "She was… supposed to… wait outside the tunnel."

A flash of relief bloomed across the girl's face. "I don't want to have to hurt you… or her… But I can't let you take him away."

"You've been taking care of him," Phryne sympathized. "The plates of food you took from Mary Briggs weren't for the miners' widows at all… they were for Neville."

Penny nodded, looking suddenly very much like a child in clothes and trouble too large for her to maneuver in.

"I know you want to protect him, but look at him." Phryne spared a glance back towards the man and noticed that his breathing had gone shallow. "None of that will matter unless he gets medical attention right away."

In the shadows, Jack removed his hat and pressed his back closer to the wall of the tunnel. Revolver in hand, he edged his way along the sloping path towards the dim light, straining to hear the words Phryne was speaking. Instead, a shrill, unfamiliar voice cut through the darkness and made its way to his ears.

"But he'll be taken in for murder!" the girl sobbed.

"He'll be taken in for questioning," he heard Miss Fisher counter. "There's a difference. I know you believe justice has been done—"

"What would you know about it?" Penny snapped, staring at the perfectly coiffed socialite—unable to imagine her suffering anything more than a broken fingernail.

"I'm sure it doesn't look it," Phryne said shrewdly, "But I know exactly what it tastes like to crave justice… the dry, salty burn… the bitterness."

Jack peered breathlessly past the halo of red hair to find Phryne's crystalline eyes glittering with pain in the lamplight.

"I spent most of my life hunting down the man who abducted and murdered my sister," she continued, "And believe me, I would have gladly taken his life had it not been exactly the escape he wanted."

Shuffling out from the darkness, the speckled pony snuffled Phryne's sleeve and allowed her to scratch, if somewhat absentmindedly, between its ears.

"Solomon trusts you," Penny observed, eyes wide with astonishment.

"Solomon," Phryne repeated. "Regal, if a bit ironic."

"He's got a rebellious streak. Makes working with him a dangerous prospect."

"A trait we all seem to have in common." She rubbed down the length of Solomon's muzzle and it closed its eyes for a brief moment, enjoying the gentle attention. As if mirroring the horse, the girl's posture seemed to relax, and Phryne seized the opportunity. "Is that why you decided to work for the Railway Commission?"

" _Someone_ had to keep an eye on them while Neville was busy writing his letters." Penny's gaze fell to the man in question shivering beneath his blankets, and her heart gave a pang of regret. The gun quivered in her hand as she began to shake and her lantern threw wild patterns around the cavern.

The light caught on a familiar upturned nose just as Phryne became suddenly aware of a third set of breaths. With a halting gesture, Miss Fisher raised her hands—as much to stop the intrusion of the Inspector as to reassure the girl, who had tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

"Neville had lost his father to a mining accident just as you had. He knew your pain, was a friend to you… At last, you had an ally in the cause," Phryne pressed. "Neville convinced you that he killed Edward Tidmuth in the name of justice, didn't he Penny? That's why you're protecting him."

"Strikes don't matter. Protests don't matter." The young woman gripped her gun tighter in her shaking hand. "Neville thought he could talk his way to better conditions. But they don't listen. It was time for a message that would get their attention."

"It was you," Phryne breathed, her spine straightening as the pieces suddenly fell into place. "You had access to Tidmuth's schedule. You knew he'd been called in for a meeting Sunday morning. But how did you get in?"

Mitchell snorted scornfully. "Tidmuth had as much respect for labour laws as you might expect. He had a spare key made so I could work into the night without Clapp ever knowing. It was easy enough to slip in and wait."

"Neville found out the truth—"

Penny nodded. "He saw me with Tidmuth and grew suspicious. I tried to reason with him… Told him all about how Tidmuth had bribed the jury. We argued about it and I knew he would try to stop me—" She was crying in earnest now, howls of pain escaping with each release of her breath. "But I wasn't going to let that bastard get away with it!"

"So, you incapacitated Ferguson and went ahead with your plan."

"He fell backwards into an air shaft and broke his leg. I had to use Solomon to pull him out and bring him someplace one would come looking. I only intended to keep him here until I could get away." She fumbled awkwardly, and was forced to set the lantern down in order to extract a note from her trouser pocket and hand it to Phryne.

Phryne scanned the letter which detailed Neville's location and known injuries.

"But then the train went out and— Please… I never meant to hurt him."

"I believe you," Phryne said softly, edging closer while keeping an eye on the gun trained at her. "There's still a chance to save him but I need your help. Give me the gun, Penny."

"No! If they find out what happened, they'll shut the place down! And it will be all my fault!" The girl's eyes darted toward the dark tunnel, where the lack of oxygen would surely be a better respite than living with the guilt of knowing she was responsible for the largest scandal the State Coal Mine had ever known. That she had cost thousands of men their livelihood, of mothers and babies their suppers. No! She couldn't—wouldn't—let that happen.

"You can't know that. Give me the gun."

With a stubborn shake of her head, Penny refused.

"Now, Jack!" Phryne shouted, bringing her heel down on the lantern and plunging them into darkness.

The Inspector lunged.

* * *

Chapter 28

An unusual sight greeted Moppe as he surveyed the minefields looking for his missing visitors. Penny Mitchell—her bright hair a beacon even at this distance—led the group with her arms held oddly in front of her. She was flanked by the two Melbourne detectives, and large pit pony followed, pulling a load on a makeshift sled.

As they grew closer, he could see that Penny was holding a canary cage in her outstretched hands. Not as apparent was the compromise Miss Fisher had instigated to keep the terrified girl out of handcuffs.

By the time their motley crew approached the gaping maw of Number Twenty, they had attracted quite a bit of attention. The canary chirped brightly from its pen held in Penny's hands, and men crowded around releasing Solomon from his burden, shouting for an ambulance…

…And then shouting to clear off.

In the chaos that ensued, the Inspector's vision narrowed to only the full skip of coal careening towards where Neville Ferguson lay unconscious on the ground.

After that, it was a blur of medics and mine inspectors. Jack recounted the events as best he could with sensational touchstones etched across his memory, obscuring the facts… The ground quivering beneath his feet as men ran for their lives… The raucous whinny of the pony as it reared on its back legs… The sear in his shoulder as he tried to pull the man clear of the deadly path… The panic in Phryne's voice as she called his name.

At some point, he recalled seeing Sergeant Daughtry's astounded face. But when the coroner arrived, it was Jack who led them to the body.

 _Red Penny_ , he thought ruefully, _had lived up to her nickname in the most gruesome way imaginable_. That Neville Ferguson still drew breath was due entirely to her sacrifice. She had launched herself towards Ferguson's limp body, rolling it out of the way of the oncoming cart… replacing it with her own. The force of nearly a tonne of coal had killed her instantly.

Exhausted, he walked around in circles—knowing that if he rested for even a moment, he would be unable to move again. His foot knocked into something metal on the ground.

The canary cage had fallen where Penny had last stood before breaking loose of Phryne's grasp. The impact had caused its hinges to swing open. Looking for the bird, Jack turned instead to find Mary Briggs standing behind him.

How she had come to be there, he could not begin to guess, but he was little surprised that she knew where to find them. In her cupped brown hands, the rescued canary sat quietly—as if in a daze.

"Precious bird," she crooned, stroking its golden feathers with a fingertip. "Keepin' 'em safe. Can't take you for granted."

Unshed tears shone in her eyes as she gazed up at the policeman. "You found him," Mary said, a watery smile breaking over her face. "You found my Neville and brought him home. Just as I knew you would."

"It wasn't me who saved him. It was Miss Mit—"

"Don't speak to me of the dead, Inspector," Mary Briggs said firmly. "Her name tethers her to this world… keeps her from movin' beyond. No matter what other sins she may have committed, she don't deserve that fate."

The canary began to titter, taking a tentative hop in the woman's hands—it seemed to have woken up at last and realised it was free.

"Fly away, then, if yer ready," Mary whispered, lifting her hands high into the air as the tiny bird flapped its wings and took flight.

"Away," Mary laughed, her hands dancing in front of her like ocean waves, her falling tears their spray. "Fly far, far away from this pain, precious one." She watched until it was nothing more than a bright yellow dot in the horizon, winking against the grey clouds.

"I owe you a great debt, Inspector," she finally said, tearing her eyes from the darkening sky.

"Ah, no," Jack coughed. "That's not necessary."

She lifted her outstretched hands to him. "Oh, but I insist."

His eyes darted around for Phryne, but she was nowhere in sight to rescue him from Mary Briggs' mysterious smile and waggling fingers.

Reluctantly, Jack braced himself and placed his fingertips in the bowls of her palms to feel her hands close snugly around them.

"Thank you, Inspector Robinson."

"Of course, Miss Briggs."

"I will always remember you for what you've done for Neville an' me."

"Er, thank you," he stumbled over her expectant gaze. Not knowing what more to say, he smiled politely at her.

"You ain't listenin'!" she scolded, refusing to let go of his hands. "You hear the words but not the meanin'. How many cases have you solved, Inspector?"

"Sorry… what?"

"Cases. How many? It don't have to be exact… give us a round number."

"I…I'm not sure. Around five hundred. Give or take."

"Five hundred!" she said in astonishment. "Five hundred times, you got t' speak for someone who can't speak fer themselves? Five hundred times, you gave someone peace... maybe even justice?"

Jack tried to avert his eyes but her piercing stare would not allow it. "I suppose... that's one way of looking at it. Ah… yes."

"Five hundred times, you been the most important person in someone's life. Today, that someone is me." Feeling his hands begin to tremble, Mary gripped them even tighter. "Children aren't the only path to a legacy, Inspector," she whispered, her eyes softening kindly. "You've left your mark in more ways than you realize."

"Mary! I'm glad you're here!" Phryne's voice cut through the maelstrom as she strode purposefully towards them. "They've just taken Neville straight to the operating theatre at Wonthaggi Hospital."

Mary allowed one of the Inspector's hands to untangle from her grasp so she could take hold of Miss Fisher's. "Thank you! I was jus' telling the Inspector how grateful I am t' you both."

She kissed the lady on both cheeks and bestowed a warm, knowing smile on the Inspector. It wasn't until after she had gone that the detectives noticed Mary Briggs had intertwined their hands.

"What was that all about?" Phryne asked, tucking herself into Jack's side—where the pressure of her head on his shoulder made him flinch. "You're in pain."

"Not in any way that matters."

This time when the whistle blew, Jack had no illusions of being bound by a French quagmire, sinking up to his thighbones in mud and shit and decay, guilt borne on his shoulders like his rucksack. Its piercing cry did not herald the onslaught of incoming shells or nerve gas, was never meant to mobilize infantry to action.

Nor did it signal the change in shifts, still two hours away.

On the ground where he stood—where Man looted the Earth and faced her reprisal—the mine whistle's steam, intangible as a phantasm, traversed its chambers and wailed to mourn the dead.

This time when the mine whistle blew to mark the death of Penny Mitchell, Jack took Phryne into his arms and considered himself the most fortunate of men to have found his way home.

* * *

Chapter 29

Their return to Melbourne had been marked with confidential de-briefings and classified statements taken separately, then together, then separately again. Chief Tate had traveled to Wonthaggi himself to speak with Neville Ferguson.

"Well?" she asked.

"The charges will never see the light of day," Jack confirmed, hanging his hat and coat on their pegs, and mumbling thanks to Mr. Butler for the whisky that had found its way into his hand. "Justice has been served and the Victoria Police has been ordered to stand down."

"Hmph. So much for Harlan Clapp's moral high ground."

"I doubt the decision was left solely to him. Chief Tate was called to Spencer Street this morning, and it was rumoured that Premiere Hogan was in attendance."

"But what about the bribery?" Phryne insisted. "Surely there should be—"

"The evidence was circumstantial at best," he sighed, claiming the mantelpiece with his drink. "As I've been reminded repeatedly. Not even Neville Ferguson thinks it wise to risk the future of the mine in order to pursue it. Apparently, he's agreed not to disclose Miss Mitchell's crimes."

"I find that hard to believe." Her eyebrow arched in a silent dare.

He merely shrugged. "Ask him yourself, but that's what Tate said… Right before he burned all the files."

"Jack! You can't be serious."

"It's true," he remarked, his tone suddenly mysterious. "Just as I've been forbidden to have this very conversation. But as I'm already disobeying a directive…"

Slowly stroking her crossed leg up and down the other, Phryne watched as her noble policeman dipped his fingers into his waistcoat and extracted a thick brown envelope. "What is that?" she whispered breathlessly.

"The only surviving copy of the Tidmuth case file," he purred with a fire in his eyes and a smirk about his lips. "I was hoping you'd see your way clear to keep it in your private vault."

It was the work of a moment to squirrel the envelope safely inside. Giddy with lust and pride and mutiny, Phryne sponged the edge of her upper lip with her tongue as she replaced the edge of the painting's gilded frame.

"You know I can't resist a rebel, Jack." She grabbed for his hand, determined to drag him upstairs where she could have him in private.

Evading her grasp, he pressed her back against the mantle and stretched her arms across its length like wings. His breath tickled her thighs as he disappeared beneath her skirt. "I'm counting on it, Miss Fisher."


	7. Chapter 7

**Part 7 (Epilogue)**

It was a cold, crisp winter morning at 221B The Esplanade. Mr. Butler handed his mistress the post and a steaming cup of coffee. With a grateful expression but no words—it was far too early for words—she tucked into the small telephone table. There was a guest upstairs at her invitation and she did not want to stray too far.

Phryne first tore into the envelope, addressed to her in a tight curlicue hand. She smiled to herself as she read the contents and tucked it into the pocket of her dressing gown.

The next letter was postmarked from Wonthaggi. Kasi Ferguson had made the journey to the mining town twice now to visit her brother, as he recovered from his injuries. According to her letter, Neville's prognosis was a good one. The doctors forecasted a rather severe limp but believed he would regain full use of his leg. Kasi went on to write that Neville had gotten engaged to a lovely local woman by the name of Mary.

Phryne fingered the paper, feeling hopeful her friends might find a way to be a family again—especially if Mary Briggs had anything to do with it. It was the silver lining to a bittersweet end.

The case was one of the toughest they had ever worked, resurrecting spectres from their pasts and conjuring new ones. A passing flash of red hair gave rise to Penny Mitchell's face. And the mine's poppetheads had found their way into Phryne's dreams. In the weeks that had passed since their return from Wonthaggi, Phryne had kept a watchful eye over Jack. Something had happened to him out there, but she couldn't put her finger on precisely what. He seemed to be sleeping easier despite the persistent ache in his shoulder. Perhaps he had made peace with his ghosts.

The shuffle of heavy steps on the landing interrupted her thoughts. A large shadow slowly engulfed her where she sat in the nook.

The man's arms and chest were so thick, he could only just clasp his hands in front of him at the wrist. The peaceful, patient stature said far more about him than the abundance of muscle evident even hidden beneath the white cotton tunic and trousers he always wore.

Getting the master masseur here had been quite a feat, considering his bookings. She suspected she owed it more to Mr. Butler's promise of _fika_ than any charm she might have possessed.

"How is he?"

" _Han är vacker_ , Phryne." A shy smile broke across Gustav's broad face as he complimented the beauty of her lover.

She sidled up to the massive blond masseur and looped her arm around his. "Tell me something I don't know, darling."

Reading the concern behind the façade, Gustav didn't tease her any further. "He is resting."

"What do you think?" she asked, leading him into the parlour for coffee and buns. "Is it very serious?"

"Is much better," Gustav assured her, sipping his coffee and explaining the nature of the strain in Jack's shoulder. Phryne had to bite her lip to keep from smiling as she pictured her lover's ears turning puce, attempting to explain how he had sustained the injury in the first place.

"He is doing the ice treatment?" the trainer asked.

"Well, yes… Mac had suggested it."

"Good," he grunted, nodding his lion's mane of a head. "Mac is good doctor. Men should listening more to women. But athletes are liking mules sometimes."

"Jack isn't an athlete," Phryne groused, taking Gustav's meaning. "He's a policeman. So, it's infinitely worse!"

"Men are devils," Gustav agreed with a grin. "Is why we love them."

Phryne toasted him with her buttery roll, and happily spent the next quarter of an hour catching up on her friend's latest exploits and Collingwood's prospects for the Premiership.

Citing another appointment, Gustav stood to take his leave. He noticed the crease in Phryne's brow. "Do not worry," he said, taking her hand firmly between his. "If it still bothers him for next week, you telling him to come see me. I will making room."

Phryne smiled brightly up at him. "That is sweet of you, Gustav. Thank you."

"I not doing it for you, Phryne." He winked cheekily and released her, accepting his coat graciously from Mr. Butler. "Keep with the ice and, please, taking it easy on him until it heals. _Lovar du_?"

"I won't overextend him… too much," she teased, receiving a stern look in return. "Oh, alright! I promise."

Five minutes later, Phryne was padding up to Jack's room. As a whole, Jack preferred to sleep in Phryne's bed and was welcomed with open arms. His wardrobe however, required a space of its own—a sacrifice she was all too happy to make when she had laid eyes on his police formals. And with a décor that was serene in contrast to her room's opulence, it was an ideal place for Jack to relax in relative peace.

She silently eased the door open and slipped inside, throwing the bolt behind her. The room was dim and cozy-warm with the curtains pulled tight and a fire burning in the grate. Weaving around her like a spell, destined to ensnare her in its invisible curls, were wafts of peppermint leaf and lavender blossom—anchored by the rich oaken scent of Jack's skin.

Licks of light and shadow danced over the sinewy figure lying supine on the long narrow table that had been set up in front of the fireplace. He was nude but for a snowy white towel, draped crosswise across his middle to cover from hip to mid-thigh, and his skin still shone with the oils Gustav had used to coax his muscles into submission.

His face was turned away from her but Jack's soft snuffles of breath told her he had fallen blissfully asleep. "Jack," she purred, more for her pleasure to say than intent of him to hear. Slowly, she circled him. Taking her time. Savouring. Drinking him in like one of Mr. B's decadent amber cocktails, letting the heat burn and build in her belly.

Gone was the tension that always seemed to inhabit Jack's body. His current lack of movement was irrelevant. It was in stillness that he wielded his iron grip—the way he held his tea cup, arched his brow in consternation, leaned against her mantle. Even after lovemaking, Jack harboured a trace of hunger—a thrum of delicious energy that danced along the veins in his forearms and vibrated in his thighbones. It was a rare gift to see him like this, exposed and unfettered and utterly pliant.

She toed off her slippers and slid the dressing gown from her shoulders, the knickers from her hips—leaving only the pale blush chemise that so perfectly matched her skin. Jack had once called it the cruelest of optical illusions. Phryne ran her hands along her satin-covered skin until her fingers were warm and tingling with the trace of her hardened nipples. Standing near his feet, she palmed his insteps with great care, imagining how her touch might find its way into his dreams. Her hands moved upwards, over his heels, his ankles, his calves, warming them to her presence.

When she reached the backs of his knees, he breathed her name into the room. "What took you so long?"

"I promised you privacy," she reminded him, hands continuing to smooth up his thighs. "And I am a woman of my word." Jack had still not turned his head to look at her and she considered that he was either unwilling or unable to move. "I see Gustav hasn't lost his touch. You're as weak as a kitten."

"That's laying it on a bit thick, Phryne," he countered in a drawl. Even the muscles of his tongue seemed to be drunk with relaxation. "Though, out of curiosity, does that arouse you more or less than the alternative?"

Her index finger edged under the towel to tease him. "Oh, darling, much, much more. Especially as you seem to have lost your traditional ways along with your drawers."

"What? He needed access to my lower back."

Phryne couldn't help but giggle in the face of Jack's most incredulous voice. "I'm sure he did."

"Mr. Nyström was a perfect gentleman. He said he knew you too long to have a go over a man," Jack chuckled. "And that he was leaving everything beneath the towel to you."

"Wise," she agreed, folding up the towel inch by inch. She kneaded the supple flesh, hands sliding over his hips and up his flanks. A rush of warmth suffused her skin as Jack hummed in utter contentment. "If you made sounds like that, I doubt I could have I could have resisted had I been in his shoes."

"Your lack of self-control has been well docum—ooohhhhfuucckk!"

Phryne had pressed her mouth to the junction of his left buttock and thigh and was suckling the spot.

With his precarious position on the massage table, there was no chance of retribution. No chance of distraction. There was little Jack could do but take her sweet torment. No scarves. No ropes. Only the gelatinous consistency of his bones and the fact that he did not want her to stop. That he was enjoying it. The thrill of it went off inside her like a firework.

She nuzzled closer, nibbling on the insides of his thighs, the globes of his arse, until he was strangled for breath and shifting his weight on the table.

"Any other smart remarks, Inspector?" Phryne teased.

"More than you have contraband, but as I'm at a bit of a disadvantage—"

"Yes, you are," she grinned unapologetically. "You've also been remanded to my care… and you know I take my obligations seriously." Leaning forward, she bit his earlobe softly. "Turn over, darling. We're only half done."

It was managed as elegantly as possible considering the circumstances and he lay gazing at her from his new posture, his erection bobbing between them. Phryne had to bite her lip to keep from whimpering. Jack Robinson, rumpled and wanton—with his soft dark eyes and bruised expression that meant he was ruined for anyone else—could make a right fool out of her.

Jack saw her lips quirk—a little tic that exposed her sentimentality—and took his chance, nudging up on an elbow to capture her mouth in a slow, succulent kiss.

He relished the effect his kisses—the way her body would go liquid in his arms when he slid his tongue across her palate, the way she rose up on her tiptoes when he gave her bottom lip the edge of his teeth. But, mostly, he loved the way her eyes remained shut long after he released her.

The sooty wings of her lashes fluttered once, twice, before her darkened irises found his. "Keep that up," Phryne panted, pushing firmly down against his breastbone, "And I won't be able to stop. This table isn't built for two."

"And since when does practicality keep you from doing anything?" He was aiming for smug, but heard himself miss by a mile as her fingertips slipped down his abdomen to trail through his russet curls.

"Since I've been thinking about doing _this_ all morning." She massaged the root of his cock and watched as the fire within him ignited, colouring his chest as though it had been sunburnt. But it did not stop there. Up it creeped, along his neck and towards the tips of his ears. And, for a moment, he couldn't meet her eyes.

"Jack?" she gasped. "Are you? You're blushing."

"I'm prone to bouts of primness, as you're always keen to point out," he quipped.

Her eyes widened, sparkling with mischief, as she continued to work him over. "It _must_ be good if you don't want to tell me."

"It's nothing. Just a silly dream I'd forgotten." He tried to dismiss it, tried to keep his voice even, but his cock grew even harder beneath her hands at the mere mention of the memory.

"Come on, Jack," she cajoled, dipping her fingers beneath the hem of her chemise to swirl them across the planes of her sopping-wet sex. "I'm dripping with intrigue."

With her slick hand, Phryne fisted the head of his cock, applying a twist that knocked the air from his lungs in a bellow and had his hips bucking into her touch. "But if it's upsetting you—" Her lips twisted into a smile that showed her canines. She had spent months attempting to tease his fantasies out into the open. Perhaps he was finally ready. "I'll stop."

"No!" he begged, blurting out the word—unable to bear the thought of the loss. "I mean, please. Please don't stop!"

Between heaving breaths as she balanced him on a knife's edge, Jack described the sordid dream he'd had. It had happened weeks after the Edwards case had wrapped. He and Phryne had never had the chance to discuss his experience at the Chinese brothel, but his subconscious had placed them both firmly in the middle of the scene—he in his Constable's uniform and she as one of the hostesses.

Phryne was breathless with the raw weight of his confession—the guiltily earnest way he had tried to explain even while her hand was stroking his cock. Rivulets of desire tickled down the backs of her legs. She edged closer to where his hand was gripping the edge of the table, nudging his knuckles with her hip.

Jack felt his cheeks flame anew as Phryne altered her pressure, her grip. She was handling him rougher now, like she had in the dream, and her other hand had snuck beneath his balls to wickedly tease the smooth strip of tissue just behind. The pad of her little finger was flirting with the sensitive puckered skin of his arsehole.

He looked up at her, his face twisted in consternation as he tried to control the hot ball of pressure building in the floor of his belly and still say what he needed to say. To apologize and explain that he didn't see her as an object, that he would never expect her to act on his twisted fantasies. But then, she whispered, "Jack, I'm going to come."

He woke, sometime later, on his back and in his bed—with no memory of how he had gotten there. Phryne was bright-eyed and nestled into his side. Her fingers were absent-mindedly toying with the jut of her nipple through the satin lingerie.

"Y-you're not angry, then?" Jack croaked.

"Angry?" She sparkled with laughter. "It was a fantasy, Jack. I was beginning to worry you didn't have any." Phryne slid her hand from her chest to his, pinching his nipple cheekily until he growled at her.

"You know," she began, adopting a more serious tone. "If I were to come home one night and find you in your police uniform—" She couldn't help but kiss his mouth as it hung open with the realisation of what he was about to be offered. "I would make the rest of that dream come true."

"Is that so?" His voice had the texture of cut glass and it sent ripples of dark pleasure up her spine.

"Mmm," she agreed, pulsing her cunt against the broad of his thigh. One of his large hands had curled around her hip and was echoing the rhythm with delicious squeezes to her derrière. "One of the rewards of honesty," she purred in delight. "Anything else you'd care to get off your chest, Inspector?"

The possibilities began to emerge in front of him like the stars in the night sky, until one had turned into a multitude—some burning brighter with the heat of a thousand suns, others winking cheekily, glowing softly—all a delight to behold.

With one smooth turn, he had Phryne's sweet, aching weight over him. She stretched up languidly to give him a better view, squealing in pleasure as he danced his fingertips up the length of the pale pink chemise, lingering where she was most sensitive.

"You know how I feel about this slip," he whispered hoarsely.

Phryne's skin prickled in anticipation. "Tell me?"

Jack licked his lips and traced the contours of hers through the sodden material with his thumb, his other hand at her hip, pinning her in place. Following her gasps of breath, he narrowed in on her clitoris, using his nails to scratch maddeningly against the swollen flesh, the satin providing near-perfect friction. _Near_ perfect.

"It flays my patience."

"What would you do about it?" she asked. Her voice had taken on the whinging, desperate quality of the tormented, but she stared at him boldfaced and curious.

He grinned hungrily back. "I thought about tearing it off your body with my bare ha—"

"Your teeth," Phryne cried. Her hips broke free from his grasp to sink down upon him in a slide of satin and sex, and she shuddered as the wave of release viciously racked her body. One of her hands reached up, blindly, for her covered breast and squeezed, digging in her fingernails to mimic the feeling of Jack's mouth. She screamed as another orgasm overtook her.

The constriction of her inner muscles had triggered his release, though her abandoned expression would have almost certainly done it. The knowledge that Phryne had very specific ideas of how he should rip the clothes from her body sent aftershocks pulsing through his cock.

She kissed him sloppily and sagged against him—inebriated with lust and secrets.

"Very well," Jack chuckled. "My teeth it is. Do you have plans this afternoon, Miss Fisher?" he asked, nestling her limp body into his side. "Because I could pencil that ravishing in right after a nap."

"Nothing of so much import as this," Phryne hummed in drowsy delight. She pillowed her head on his chest and strummed his ribcage with lazy strokes, enjoying the easy domesticity. "Mister Butler asked to go over the household arrangements but I can put him off a bit."

Jack froze beneath her, obviously appalled at the suggestion.

"Not to worry, darling. You won't suffer." Phryne assured him with a laugh and bestowed an affectionate pat to Jack's stomach. "He just wants to be sure everything goes to plan before Dot has the baby. Of course, nothing around here ever goes exactly to plan. I swear the man has a sixth sense."

Phryne didn't have to be able to see him to know Jack's eyebrow had just leapt toward his hairline in expectation. "I just had a letter from Jane. She wants to come home between terms."

"Oh." The news startled a cough out of his lungs. "Jane hasn't been home in quite some time."

In fact, Jane Ross hadn't been back to Melbourne since he and Phryne had embarked on their relationship. Phryne had written her, he knew. And, according to Phryne, the girl's response had been enthusiastic. But it was one thing to read about the arrangement in a letter—and quite another to return to a man living in your house, sharing your adopted mother's bed. His guilty conscience dispatched his hand to tug the sheet up over their hips.

"Too long," Phryne agreed. "So, you'll have to rearrange your schedule."

"Of course," he replied. "I wouldn't want to intrude."

Rolling up to her knees, Phryne looked at him in disbelief. Jack was fond of Jane. He had taught her how to play chess, and had been the only one the girl trusted to help her with her Shakespeare. She had expected a much warmer reception.

"Intrude? What on Earth are you talking about? You live here!" Phryne huffed, annoyance pulling her vowels taut.

"I can go to the flat for a few weeks," he said, referring to the little place he kept as his official address. "It's not a sacrifice."

"How noble of you," she crowed, sarcasm dripping from her tongue. "This isn't the same as ducking out of Aunt Prudence's dinner parties. Jane wants to spend time with us—together. I simply won't accept any excuse for your absence, not even murder."

"She does?"

"Oh Jack," she breathed, reading the confusion in Jack's expression. The fight fizzled away like the bubbles of day-old champagne. "You're a smart man. I would have never taken you for such a fool."

She placed her palm to his cheek and spoke softly. "Of course, she does. You've been part of her life for as long as I have. Longer, if you want to split hairs."

"As a policeman—"

Phryne had stopped him with a finger to his lips. "Jane doesn't see it that way. _The choices we make carry consequences_. Isn't that what you told me? After everything you've done, you mean so much more to her than that."

Jack was not a superstitious man by nature but the desire to touch wood—invoking spirits for his protection—was overwhelming. To feel this much happiness was surely to tempt fate.

"I never presumed to hope for such a thing," he finally whispered.

"Which?" Phryne laughed, when his worry lines faded away. "Jane considering you family, or me listening to what you say?"

"Both," he cheeked, beaming up at her.

"You sell yourself short, Jack Robinson," she said, leaning forward to kiss him softly. "Don't you know how easy it is to fall in love with you?"

Jack's heart, already fit to burst, skidded to a halt in his chest.

From the moment Phryne had invited him to share her life and her home, he had never doubted her feelings. She preferred to express herself physically, in every touch, every shared smirk, every press of her lips to his skin. He might have been content with this, had she not just dangled the words in front of him like gems to a lapidary.

He sat up and cradled her face in his hands, tenderly tucking a sweaty strand of hair behind her ear with his middle finger. "Phryne?"

Uttering not a word, she dropped jewel-bright promises to the corner of his mouth, his philtrum, the cleft of his chin.

"Just once," he lied against her mouth—knowing full well that, like kissing her, once would be never enough. His voice was rough and hungry. He needed to hear those words, needed to feel her skin against his, more than he needed to breathe.

Determined to use whatever wiles he possessed to extract them, Jack wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his lap for a scorching kiss. It was then he realised that she was still wearing that confounded slip, and a string of curses tumbled forth.

An impish smile curled Phryne's lips and her eyes sparkled at him in challenge. Phryne was fond of games, and driving him mad with passion was her particular favourite. He could hardly begrudge her for it when the spoils were so rich.

Applying his teeth to the length of her throat, Jack took up the gauntlet. "Perhaps," he murmured, savouring the saltiness of her skin, the bitterness of her perfume, as they roughened his every word. "I need to loosen your tongue."

Amidst the snarling in her lover's throat, the peals of ripping satin tearing through the air, Phryne's voice rang out at last.

"I love you, Jack Robinson."

The words fell upon the crown of his head, glittering like gold—more valuable than any rubies or diamonds or coal mined from the Earth, their carat weight almost more than his heart could bear.


End file.
